Of Power and Prestige
by Ell Roche and ExcentrykeMuse
Summary: Nothing could tempt Marvolo, Lord Slytherin, to leave the Lone Islands—except, perhaps, for Lady Haesel Potter, the most powerful witch of her generation. TMR/Fem!Harry
1. Prologue

**Title: **Of Power and Prestige

**Authors: **Ell Roche and ExcentrykeMuse

**Pairings: **Tom Riddle/Girl!Harry Potter, James Potter/Isadore Vaisey, Charlus Potter/Dorea Black, and background pairings.

**Warnings: **age difference, alternate universe, dark themes, genderbending, original characters, minor fusion with Narnia, and violence.

**Note: **This is set in the same universe as Ell Roche's "Of Ancestry and Honor", which can be found in her "Chancing Chaos" collection. It's very AU. If you don't read that first, this will make little sense; it explains the James Potter/Isadore Vaisey pairing, as he didn't marry Lily Evans.

**Summary:** Nothing could tempt Marvolo, Lord Slytherin, to leave the Lone Islands—except, perhaps, for Lady Haesel Potter, the most powerful witch of her generation. When Marvolo decides to come courting . . . well, lives change.

* * *

**Prologue**

It began as whispers throughout the Ministry of Magic—_Lord Slytherin is returning to England_. The ambassador was a man of intrigue and mystery. Only the most venerable members of the Wizengamot remembered his early years. He was a boy born in seeming obscurity, and yet the most brilliant student Hogwarts had ever seen. He surpassed the great Albus Dumbledore, defeater of the Dark Lord Grindelwald, in his magical prowess and intellectual capacities. Some of his teachers whispered that _perhaps_ he might be the second Merlin.

How, though, could a boy from a Muggle orphanage, having sprung from nowhere, be that devastatingly clever?

"I remember him," Dowager Augusta Longbottom confided to her old friend Violet, who was partially deaf. "Tom Riddle Jr. was his name. Not that he uses the name 'Tom' now."

"Ambassador Riddle," Violet sighed, even though she had been married nearly four decades ago, quite late. In fact, those who still remembered her from before her wedding would refer to her as _Old Maid Vi_. "How handsome he was."

"How handsome he _is_," Augusta commented. She hadn't seen him in nearly three decades, but even then, although he was reaching sixty or so, he barely looked a day over twenty-five according to the rumors.

"Handsomer than Neville?"

Augusta pursed her lips. Knowing the child and his annoying (though politically useful, she must admit to herself) habit of puttering off after Lady Haesel Potter, there very well could soon be an engagement announcement in the papers. Assuming, of course, that her grandson managed to convince Haesel that he was the proper choice.

Despite their status as magical godsiblings, she wasn't assured of his ability to seal the deal, as it were. Haesel was, she couldn't help but admit, powerful enough to resist such a long-established bond. She also had a stubborn streak a wizard-mile long. Sometimes she got ideas, of all the horrible notions! And with Haesel's coming of age gala just two weeks away, it was nigh impossible to imagine Neville winning her over before she was officially 'out' to the rest of pureblood society, and therefore open to courting from other suitors. Of which, Augusta knew, there would be many.

Violet looked at Augusta, waiting for her answer.

Setting her teacup on its saucer, Augusta gazed wistfully out the window. "Yes," she admitted. "Much handsomer than Neville or anyone else could ever hope to be."

Violet hummed to herself. "They say his friends called him Marvolo, once upon a time, when the rumors started that he was the Heir of Slytherin."

"Quite," Augusta agreed, picking up a biscuit. She didn't much fancy nibbling on it quite yet, so she set it on her saucer. "It was his grandfather's name, or so they say. He was named for both sides of the family, rumor had it."

"A Slytherin name, then."

"Yes, Vi, a Slytherin name. Ambassador Riddle is Lord Slytherin after all."

"And yet there's no Lady Slytherin," Violet sighed.

Now, that was the real tragedy. The most eligible bachelor in wizarding England, in wizarding Europe in fact, had never shown any interest in having a Lady Slytherin. Seemingly not even desiring a hostess to the little social gatherings he was forced to sponsor. For a while rumors abounded, as they had with Dumbledore all those years and years ago but, well, they came to nothing. The ambassador was simply reclusive. He never appeared in the society pages, did not come back to England, and simply trotted off to the continent to Merlin knew where and did Merlin knew what. Obviously, he was the ambassador to somewhere important, but his appointment had been so long ago now that no one remembered where he had been sent as emissary or who had even sent him. Still, they recalled that it was important. Nothing else would suit for Lord Slytherin. It was simply unthinkable!

"Perhaps—" Violet suggested, always the romantic.

"Hardly," Augusta responded, picking up her biscuit once again. "He's near seventy now."

"He's still young, though, for a wizard." Violet tipped her head to the side and her frizzled hair fell floppily around her face.

Augusta rolled her eyes. "But who, Vi, _who_ would cause him to come back to England if bonding really is on his mind?"

Before her friend could answer, though, a thought occurred to her. That slip of a girl: Haesel. She was powerful enough to attract even the most reclusive of bachelors. Not only was she the most powerful witch of her generation—and a wizarding generation lasted fifty years—surpassing even her mother, but it was also rumored that she was the most powerful pureblood witch in several centuries. She came from an impeccable background, was the eldest child (so she would know responsibility), and even Augusta would admit the girl was a pretty, little thing.

She frowned. As much as she disliked the thought of Neville bonding before he finished his schooling (she had always assumed that he would try for the girl, however poor the attempt might be), Augusta doubted Haesel would choose Neville. Why would she apart from childhood affection? Still, she wouldn't like to lose such a coveted asset to her line prematurely. Perhaps Frank or Alice would manage to convince Haesel that joining the Potter family to the Longbottom family was the right choice. Merlin knew the girl spent a great deal of time at Longbottom Manor (although lately she had been rumored to visit Lady Rana Lestrange several times at Malfoy Manor, of all places), and at least Frank—unlike his son—had a proper head on his shoulders.

Narrowing her eyes in contemplation, Augusta casually dismissed the original line of thought. No, surely Lord Slytherin did not return to England simply to court a girl fifty years his junior. The thought was preposterous!

Augusta had been a young girl once. Yes, a name meant everything, but so did a young, handsome face. And Ambassador Riddle had just that, she realized with horror. Anyone who remembered did not care that his father had actually been a Muggle. He was Lord Slytherin, for Merlin's sake! Even without the title, she knew he had purged his father's non-Noble blood somehow; there had been a minor furor when he returned as Head Boy with dark eyes instead of the boring brown he had been born with.

She swallowed nervously, nearly choking on her biscuit. It surprised her, as she hadn't even realized she'd been nibbling on it as she thought.

The conversation soon turned to other topics, but the haunting thought remained with Augusta. Somehow, she could not shake it.

* * *

In the North of England, a deceptively young looking man sat at a desk before a window, gazing out at the small town that slumbered peacefully in the late evening. Candles floated about his head, reflecting off his nearly black hair that had a strange, dark auburn shine to it. If he hadn't appeared so human, with his far-too-knowledgeable eyes, a fanciful person might be tempted to say he was an angel: he was so handsome. With his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, a quill flicked between his fingers, as he was deep in thought.

A half-smile, private, nearly a smirk but more than that, graced his features, almost as if, despite himself, he was in love and had yet to fully realize it.

Coming to a decision, the man turned to a sheaf of parchment in front of him and, with a grace that bespoke years of practice, he signed his full name to the offer of courtship he had just penned—_Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr., Ambassador to the Lone Islands, Lord Slytherin. _An eerily haunting smile turned up the left corner of his mouth as he did so.


	2. Part the First

**Part the First**

Lady Haesel Potter perched on the edge of the brocade settee, the picture of propriety. Her robes were pristine and bore the Potter family crest on the back. Her ebony curls were twisted up in a crown of intricate plaits that most witches were unable to create without magic. Her ice-blue eyes were blank as she listened to her mother and grandmother banter ideas back and forth for her coming of age gala.

"I say let Heir Malfoy have the first waltz," Dorea Potter said. "His mother's a Black, and we're imminently graceful. He'll show her to her best advantage."

Haesel's nails scraped against her robes, wrinkling it in furrows.

"Nonsense, Dorea," Lady Isadore Potter replied. "Neville is her godbrother; I feel comfortable allowing him that close to her. It wouldn't do to show the Malfoys so much favor at the outset of the season."

Eyes that were identical to her mother's closed in a slow blink of frustration. They weren't normally like this, and Haesel hated that one stupid event had set them at odds. Not only that, but as the planning had progressed they had started treating her like a doll—someone who would fulfill whatever whims they possessed. Though she was present in the lounge, they were talking about her as if she were unable to speak and held no opinions of her own.

"He's already been shown favor, what with Haesel constantly riding his father's Abraxans. It's hardly a secret, Isadore. I quite like Narcissa's boy, though. He has good bloodlines in him. And his power is nothing to—"

Gritting her teeth, Haesel stood and left the room without either her mother or grandmother noticing. One of them would likely berate her later for not asking to be excused from such an important discussion, but she didn't care. She was so sick of this, all of it. She was tired of the bickering inside the manor when everyone usually got along perfectly well. She didn't want to hear any more debates about who might offer for her (they suspected all single bachelors of any means in England would) and whom her parents would be willing to consider.

But most of all, Haesel could not stand another moment of hearing them argue about who deserved her first public waltz. It was supposed to be a special moment in her life—something truly unforgettable—and neither woman had asked whom she felt comfortable with. No one asked if there was a particular man she wouldn't mind dancing with and standing in such a close proximity with. Her partner for the waltz would touch her more intimately than any man outside her family ever had, and Haesel felt that she should definitely get some (well, _all_) say in whose hands touched her person.

"Turning seventeen should be a joy, not a curse," muttered Haesel as she traipsed up to her chambers. She wanted to scream and throw things, anything to destroy the façade of perfectionism she was being ruthlessly stuffed into. She knew they meant well, all of them, but she couldn't take being trapped in the manor another minute. She felt stifled, smothered, and so unlike herself that she feared others' plans and intentions for her would consume her very being.

"I wish I could be sixteen forever." If it would keep her family from being torn apart, she would gladly never grow up. These past few weeks it had felt like her family had been living under the pall of a Contentious Curse. How else could love and understanding so quickly turn into petty (though always polite) fighting and quarrelsomeness?

Haesel stalked into her room, slammed the door behind her, and then ripped her robes off; she dropped them on the floor and kicked them with one slipper-shod foot. "Stupid, stupid."

Why couldn't they just get along? Why couldn't they agree on something—anything? Why did _she_ have to be the cause of all the recent disputes? "Don't let my family be destroyed in my name. Merlin, get them to stop!" There had to be something that she could do; Haesel refused to accept that one birthday caused so much strife.

In nothing but her shift (and forearm wand-holster), she stormed over to the full-length mirror in her wardrobe. Her appearance was one of the main factors in this mess. It was common knowledge that petite witches were the most powerful; Haesel was barely over five feet tall. However, she wasn't just powerful. She was beautiful as well. She was the type of girl that other women wanted to be, and that men wanted to protect or possess—or both.

A half-formed memory came back to her, from her fifth year, when she had felt hot, possessive, protective magic engulf her when she needed it the most. As fanciful as it seemed, it was almost as if she had been loved, as if the magic had been specifically sent to her because someone outside her family _loved_ her and could not bear her tears. "Just a dream," she muttered to herself, before turning her thoughts back to her far-too-favorable appearance.

Right then, she would have given almost anything to be tall, gangly, and hideous.

"You look lovely, dear," the mirror assured her.

That was about the last thing Haesel wanted to hear. After toeing off her slippers, she donned a pair of leaf-patterned tights and then slid a long tunic that was embroidered with a magnificent hazel tree over her head. The pale blue fabric with rust-colored stitching clung to her slender form and stopped just above her knees. She stepped into ankle-high boots, as she tied the silk sash around her waist in a knot.

Her younger brother Henry had given her the tunic for her sixteenth birthday as a joke. It was technically casual-wear for young wizards, and certainly something that pureblood witches were not to don. This would hopefully force her family to focus on her instead of the upcoming gala.

"That's a mite improper, dear. Are you sure you want to wear it?" The mirror sounded scandalized at the thought of a Potter maiden showing not only ankle but also calf and knee as well.

"Quite," Haesel replied, lips curled in a fierce grin. If this didn't get her mother and grandmother's attention, nothing would.

She had just stepped out of her room when a loud whistling sound echoed through the hallway. Haesel glanced to the left to see her fifteen-year-old brother wiggling his eyebrows playfully. He was wearing a similar tunic over a pair of black trousers, though his tunic was a burnished red—one of the family colors. His hair was messy like their father's, but pale blond like their mother's. He also had their father's hazel eyes—though they appeared golden more often than not.

Henry put a hand to his heart and grinned. "The Perfect Pureblood Princess has decided to grace this lowly peasant with her presence. I beg you, Princess, let me grovel at your feet."

The annoying nickname her fellow Hogwarts' students had given her usually irritated her greatly, but coming from her brother's lips, it was nothing but humorous. Besides, the nickname he had received at school was even worse.

Haesel pressed the back of her left hand to her forehead. "Oh! How could a mere princess allow the Golden God to grovel at her feet? Surely the princess would swoon when he appeared before her." Thus saying, she crumpled toward the floor.

Strong hands caught her, as she had known they would. Her brother was as protective of her as she was of him; their sibling bond was unshakable in her mind—the magic link remained thick and irremovable by anything but death.

Their gazes met upside-down, and then Henry kissed her forehead before righting her. His hands settled reassuringly on her shoulders as she stared up at him. "How bad is it today?" he asked.

She gestured wordlessly to the tunic he had given her.

He winced. "That bad?"

"Yes."

"And what are they fighting about today?" Henry asked as he rubbed her shoulders.

Her lips quirked in a bitter smile. "Who gets my first waltz, Mum thinks Neville should have it. Grandmama Dorea says Heir Draco is the best choice." Haesel shrugged, causing her brother's hands to fall away, and then crossed her arms over her chest. Why wouldn't they ask her opinion? Didn't she have the right to say who touched her?

"Hmm. Not Heir Smith despite your obvious preference?" he teased.

She was not going to dignify that with a response. He knew she did not have romantic feelings for Zach, despite their closeness.

"I wish I was old enough that it wouldn't be an issue, Sis. Last I heard Granddad forbade me from attending because I'm not sixteen." He patted her head. "I would've saved you from all this if I could have." Henry sighed. "I know how much you hate strangers touching you."

"It's not your fault. I just . . . I don't want to give anyone false hope, you know? And whoever they pick is likely going to think I favor him personally." Haesel glared at the wall. "It's stupid that I can't dance with you, even if you are underage; I don't have to worry about you groping me. And it's even more stupid that I can't dance with Grandpapa or Dad because they're married." That would have made her life much easier, and she would have felt more secure about the upcoming gala. She always felt safe with the men in her family; they would never willingly let something bad happen to her.

"Neville wouldn't be so bad," Henry said. "He wouldn't dare try anything."

"I know!" Haesel said quickly. Neville, Heir Longbottom, was unfailingly honorable. She didn't doubt that in the least. "I know he wouldn't try anything. But it's my first waltz, and—"

"And?"

Haesel sighed, squeezed her eyes shut, and leaned against her brother's chest. Neville was sweet, honorable, and very dear to her heart; there was no question about that. He came from a good family and would never treat her ill. She knew almost everything about him, because they had been good friends since they were little—a result of the godsibling bond they shared: Lady Alice Longbottom being her godmother and Isadore Potter being his.

"And he'll think it means something, Henry. He'll assume I requested him as my partner. Neville will believe I've fallen in love with him," she whispered.

"What's so bad about that?" Henry asked cautiously. "You have to know he's devoted to you. Neville worships the air you breathe. He would always treat you well."

Haesel winced. "I know." She leaned back, almost breaking the comforting hug her brother had given her. "Your word?" whispered Haesel.

Henry's eyes narrowed, all hint of humor having vanished. Just like their father, her brother knew when a situation was serious. Besides, no Potter ever spoke those words lightly. A Potter's word, once given, could never be broken. "You have my word."

A guaranteed, magically binding vow of silence was all that could get her to speak one of her darkest secrets. Not dark because it was evil, but dark because it would cause great injury to someone she cared about if he ever learned of it.

"Henry—" Her tongue felt thick, as if it had swollen until her mouth was full. She had kept this secret since she was eleven years old and her magic and body began maturing.

"Let me share this burden, Haesel," Henry said, after she had fallen silent for several minutes.

In a society where godsiblings bonded more often than not, she knew her next words would shock her brother to the core. "My magic categorized his magic into a pseudo-sibling slot."

Henry gasped and gaped at her. "Merlin and Morgana! Are you serious?" His arms fell to his sides.

"Deadly." Haesel curled her arms around her stomach and pretended that the toes of her boots were the most interesting things in the world. Despite all the time she had spent with Neville and how loyal and upstanding he was, she could never accept his hand in courtship. The godsibling link between them was frail in her mind, because their magic was so incompatible for her. If she hadn't been as powerful as she was, he would have been the perfect husband. However, he hadn't even had a passing fancy for her at eleven, so her magic labeled the stabilizing bond as fraternal. Because of that, her magic wouldn't let any feelings of love or attraction grow. The worst part—the part that she fervently wished to change—was that Neville's magic had taken years longer to categorize their bond. So while her feelings for him were brotherly, his weren't. He was almost compelled into a deep love that she could never return in the way he would desire.

"You're right," Henry rasped, still stunned and shaken. "Giving him your first waltz would be exceedingly cruel."

"I know." Haesel flinched from her cowardly thoughts. "I don't have the heart to tell Mum. That's just not something you tell others; it's too private. I won't have him humiliated. I shouldn't even have told you," she confessed.

Henry's blond hair flapped about his face as he shook his head. "No, Haesel, you were right to tell me. I won't think less of him; few men will be found worthwhile by your magic, as powerful as you are. Besides, you keep my secrets—it's only right that you allow me to share the burden of yours."

"Thank you," Haesel said, a gentle smile on her face. He was correct, after all. She knew many of his secrets, and she knew he would never betray hers.

Henry ruffled her plaits. "Now, what do you say we head to the lounge, you can scandalize them with your daring and improper outfit, and then we'll get away from all this drama about dancing, dancers, and dances."

Haesel chuckled, appreciating his attempt to lighten her mood. He was right. Getting out of the manor could only help, and she had already planned to do that when she'd chosen to wear the tunic. Taking him with her, so he could avoid the chaos too, only seemed fair. "All right."

"I knew there was a reason you were my favorite sister."

She rolled her eyes at the familiar line. "I'm your only sister." Her mother had gotten ill while she was pregnant with Henry and almost lost him. Isadore had been unable to conceive again after he was born, but Haesel never wondered about what any other brothers or sisters might have been like. She just thanked Merlin for saving Henry.

"I wouldn't want any other," he replied.

"As I would never want a different brother."

They smiled at each other and then completed the walk to the lounge. When she stepped through the doorway, Haesel had to resist the urge to throw a Blasting Curse at the windows. Her grandmother and mother were still debating candidates for her first waltz partner, and she had been absent from the room for over an hour.

"What about Marcus Flint? He's a strapping fellow."

"He just got engaged to that Italian heiress. Cormac McLaggen—"

"Is a womanizing tosser that won't lay one hand on my sister. Unless he wishes to lose it, of course, because I'll happily sever it at his wrist," Henry snapped.

"Language, young man!" Dorea scolded, not looking away from some fabric samples in her hands.

"I taught you better than that, Henry," Isadore said as she flipped pages in a book of designs for formal robes.

Henry snorted. "You also said that being honest is more important than being politic."

"I—" Isadore glanced up from the book and then almost dropped it. "Haesel, what in the name of Morgana are you wearing?"

Her mother was obviously horrified, because Haesel barely heard the question. "Clothes."

Dorea's lips twitched at the response when she glanced over at them, but then she said, "Don't get smart with your mother, young lady."

Henry swung an arm around Haesel's shoulders. "Sis and I are going out now."

"Not dressed like that," Isadore said, her eyes locked on Haesel's knees, "even if you have decided to riding." Her comment was ignored.

"And we're not coming back until you both stop quarreling over my stupid gala," Haesel said, wanting to end the pointless contention.

"It's not stupid! We love you, and just want you to have the best of everything!" Isadore protested.

At the same time, Dorea said, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Quite," Haesel retorted. "I won't sleep under this roof another night if you two keep acting like this. I won't let one day of my life hurt our family." She hooked an arm about her brother's waist and made sure she had a tight grasp on him. The last thing she wanted to do was lose or Splinch him whilst she Side-Along Apparated him to their destination; he would never let her forget it. "So before we return, fix this," she commanded. She wouldn't be able to thank Uncle Sirius enough for teaching her how to Apparate before she could even qualify for a license. He had made her escape from this hell possible.

"Or else I'll find Sis somewhere else to stay for a while. I might even join her," Henry said cheekily.

Before either woman could reply, Haesel and Henry turned in place and Disapparated.

* * *

Marvolo was more than aware of the rumors that had followed him his entire life—or, rather, his entire _wizarding_ life. It was one of the few advantages of being an orphan; he knew how to keep his ear to the ground, or to the keyhole, whatever the situation called for. He would listen to the mumbles and whispers, carefully deciphering them. The skill had served him more than well.

As a young man, it meant that he could gauge others' reactions to him—first professors, then students, then greater pureblood society. Professor Dumbledore, of all the fools, was his hardest and yet first real achievement. The imbecile had thought Marvolo was dangerous, deranged even. Marvolo could see the suspicion in the way he was watched, so he played the good, little orphan, the noble little orphan, the orphan who wanted a family—and found one, surprisingly, in the Slytherin line.

That caused Dumbledore to watch him more closely, but only at first. Marvolo could have done so much with the information he gathered. He managed to gain access to the legendary Chamber of Secrets, could have wreaked havoc, and yet—and yet—

Still, after all these years, he didn't quite know why he hadn't. Something held him back, a conscience that he wasn't even quite certain he had, or perhaps a subtler form of cunning that whispered to him in the dark: _No, not this path, think of how much more you could achieve if . . . if . . . _

Marvolo had listened as he studied. He became Head Boy, as he claimed the title of Lord Slytherin and was ushered into pureblood society. No one questioned him then. With the hiring of capable tutors, who needed money much more than they ever needed secrets, Marvolo learned how to hold himself, how to act, how to speak in that strange silver-tongued way only wizards—even Hufflepuff graduates—did. It took him two years, sequestered after Hogwarts, delaying his hard-won Ministry post with words of how he had to put his affairs in order, as the title of Lord Slytherin had been unclaimed for so long.

When he entered wizarding society, it was with the cool grace of a watching tiger, loath as he was to compare himself to _any_ feline. He had chosen, among his many offers, to enter wizarding diplomacy. With his habit of listening and watching, he was soon promoted—higher and higher and higher until it was difficult for him to climb any further.

There were whispers by the time he was thirty-five that he might be the perfect candidate for Minister for Magic—that he could beat even the seemingly matchless Dumbledore. But just like the old fool Marvolo had duped all those years ago, he had little desire for that sort of fickle power. The game of wizarding diplomacy kept his agile mind intrigued, fresh. The players always changed; there was never the same scenario, the same gambit, or the same seduction with his power.

Now, almost fifty years after he had joined the Ministry, he was one of the most politically powerful ambassadors in the entire wizarding world. He was not only Lord Slytherin, one of the oligarchy and the only reigning one in Britain, but he had the honor of being the first ambassador in over four centuries to be accepted to the Lone Islands, where diplomacy was more than just a game; it was a fight for his very life. Where the prospect of death or failure would have once tortured and frightened Marvolo, he now reveled in it.

Still, he never forgot where he came from—never fully failed to recall the parlors and elegant ballrooms where he first cemented himself as the powerful Lord Slytherin.

Marvolo kept his ear to the ground, although he was leagues upon leagues away from wizarding society, and knew that there had never been one such as him to pass through pureblood society. No one with such a lineage, with his sharp elegance, with his sheer amount of power (that he somehow inherited from his Muggle father and practically-a-Squib mother. A witch he had learned to love, somehow, over the intervening years away from the two worlds he had known, if only because she gave him life and his heritage) had ever passed through the wizarding world.

When he had first entered the pureblood world as the young Lord Slytherin—a promising, handsome, and influential wizard with powerful magic—there had been whispers as to whether he would take a bride. Pureblood witches usually married early, often before they turned twenty. The truly desirable of them would sometimes wait for the wizard _she_ deemed worthy of her, but it was rare. Comparatively, sometimes wizards would wait, often for decades after an infant was born, if he desired a chance at aligning himself with her magic or her family.

Marvolo, naturally, had been aware that one of the ways to cement his reputation would be to bond well and to bond relatively early—before he was twenty-five if he could help it and certainly not long after that. A strong pureblood witch with an impeccable bloodline would finally put to rest any rumors on his strange name. Then, of course, there was also the need for an heir.

Heirs were the future, his key to evading death. If his heirs survived, if his bloodline perpetuated into the future, he would live on in more than just the reputation he intended to build. Salazar Slytherin lived in him just as much as the disgusting Muggle sperm-donor had (before he purged the sniveling creature's tainted blood).

However, he found himself dissatisfied. No one challenged him. Not a single witch had the power he desired, although she might have the pedigree. Also, he didn't want to feel remotely indebted to anyone. He was _Lord Slytherin_, after all. Any witch he married should feel indebted to him. No matter how pure her bloodlines, if she was not a member of the oligarchy, then she was hardly his equal.

So he did not bond. He did not court a witch.

Shaking his head, Marvolo glanced around his private apartment on the Lone Islands, his trunk ready for him to leave. Now all he had to wait for was the ten-year full tide, which was due in the next week.

There was a reason why the few wizards who had ever come to these islands never came back. Leaving them was not an easy task. As far as Marvolo knew he would be the first, but that was hardly worth thinking about.

Now, there existed a reason for him to return. A child had been born, a witch, whose power might begin to match his, with a name he could not scoff at, with beauty, poise, and spirit. The thought was intoxicating.

Oh, he'd taken lovers over the years. Just because he hadn't bonded to cement his position or gain heirs didn't mean he wasn't human. Children never came of his affairs; he made certain of it. When he had come to the Lone Islands, he had had few lovers.

His tastes had become exotic over the decades here, in this place almost out-of-time. He hoped the witch who called him home was adventurous. She would have to be for her to retain his interest—and he wanted that. What would be the point of a wife without a bit of intrigue and a hint of respect? He could always leave her at Riddle Manor with the children and return to this place without her. He was Ambassador to the Lone Islands until his supposed death to the outside world, which was the standard two hundred years. It wouldn't do for a new ambassador to be proposed if the last one was still somehow alive and serving his duty to all of wizarding kind. His line would, naturally, have to continue back in the wizarding world, but a wife, a wife who could satisfy him in those decades, whose power could flicker and burn with his, was a prize that not even he could refuse.

Marvolo was vain. Any wife he took would have to be truly in love with him, enthralled with his power, addicted to his strength and to his body, and soul-bonded to him. Nothing else was suitable. He could not abide with a sham of a marriage as his parents had had, where his father had so callously left his mother simply because she was not a Muggle. Such affection was weak and distasteful.

Marvolo had had enough witches and wizards over the years fall under his thrall that he was certain he could entice Lady Haesel Potter into choosing him from among all of her suitors. He would be a stranger to her, and while he valued his position as ambassador and a member of the oligarchy, he wanted the _challenge_ of having her choose him without knowing of what he was, but simply who he was.

It was, after all, a large chess game. She was the queen that he intended to capture, among the knights and bishops flittering about her. A few pawns might have to be sacrificed, but still, when Marvolo set his mind to something he _never _lost. He had absolutely no intention of changing that now.

So, it was with a heart full of curiosity and promise (and not full of sentiment, he constantly reminded himself) that he sailed from the Lone Islands and arrived back in England. His father's manor was in tolerable condition, and he went about setting it to rights; house-elves, after all, could only do so much without an active master. The fashions had altered and Marvolo had changed over the long time he had been away.

With a short note to the International Confederation of Wizards after two months, he announced his return and knew it would be a matter of days before his arrival would be common knowledge in England and across Europe. The gossipmongers would be after him, but as his house was heavily warded, none of them would reach him. Riddle Manor, for all of its sordid history, was his sanctuary and the place of his first murders, even if they were by simple compulsion charms.

A once-small snake, now grown large and lazy, slithered into the living room. He remembered naming her Nagini years ago, decades that had seemed to pass him by. She was a tolerable conversationalist, but after so long among the Islanders, she paled in comparison, especially as she had come to think that the manor was hers by right. He might just have to get rid of her.

_Well, now is as good a time as any_, he thought.

Snapping his fingers, a house-elf appeared, and Marvolo ordered Nagini's removal from the wards. "Let her wreak havoc on the Muggles," he said, looking on the snake that now disgusted him. He couldn't have her about to frighten the future Lady Slytherin or contaminate his heirs with her laziness. "Get rid of her."

The house, then, was empty. There were no talking portraits to harass him, no tutors to insist again and again that his posture was not quite right, that the turn of his wrist wasn't correct just yet, that his bow would insult a pureblood lady.

He almost smirked at the recollection. It was difficult to believe he had been back in England for almost a year now.

Picking up his cloak, he tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. "Potter Manor," he said. He didn't want to exercise patience entirely in this matter, and was tired of the months spent within the walls of his own home, which was nowhere near as familiar as the Lone Islands had become. Fire travel was something he had nearly forgotten, but he managed to right himself elegantly. A house-elf was waiting, and he presented the inferior creature with his card.

Moments later he was led through the hallway, catching snippets of conversation, obviously about his future bride. "I quite like Narcissa's boy."

Merlin, Marvolo could think of nothing worse. Narcissa was a Black, and hadn't she married Abraxas's whelp of a child? What a bizarre, though magically potent, combination.

A rustle as he turned the corner caused him to see the ends of a young woman's robe as a feminine figure ascended the stairs, the back of a slipper just visible before the wraith was completely gone.

Marvolo smiled to himself. Ah. Lady Haesel had had enough of that conversation.

He felt the need to follow her, but she was already gone. He would not disturb propriety by following her to the private rooms above them, without an escort, without some form of introduction. Sentiment, he thought. Always sentiment.

Marvolo wrapped his magic around himself. It wouldn't do for them to meet quite yet, he supposed.

He was led into a private study and was amused at the surprise evident in his old schoolmate's eyes as Lord Charlus Potter took him in.

"Lord Slytherin—you haven't aged a day."

"Hardly," he deflected, sitting in the chair offered and accepting a glass of Firewhisky. "I'm certain I appear at least twenty-five."

"Yes, but past that." Charlus was startled, as Marvolo assumed he would be. Charlus cleared his throat. "To what do I owe the unexpected honor of your visit?"

Marvolo took a sip of his Firewhisky, enjoying the familiar burn that slid down his throat, warming him from the inside.

"So rumors of my return have reached the drawing rooms of England?" It was a counter question, meant to set Old Charlus off-keel, even more than his presence and physical appearance had already. This was, after all, only a game.

Marvolo listened to the tick of a clock and the reverberations of a conversation a floor or so up. Lady Haesel, most likely, and perhaps any other grandchildren Charlus had managed to acquire. Lucky sod. If Marvolo remembered, his heir had been enamored however briefly with a Mudblood. Lucky escape that. Marvolo doubted he would even think of joining his name with a half-blood, no matter how powerful she was. He did have standards, after all—when it came to bonding.

"Naturally," Charlus answered, trying to be casual. The upper left part of his lip twitched a bit, his tell tale sign that he'd had since Hogwarts. Marvolo had unnerved him. Splendid.

Marvolo took another drink of Firewhisky. "I have a business proposal for you, old boy," he began, with a quirk of his lip.

Charlus, bless him, almost startled. It was so quaint. "Oh? I didn't know you were in business." The rest of the question was left unasked.

"Not of the usual kind," Marvolo admitted. After all, the acquiring of a bride was hardly everyday business, now was it? Except for the poor beggars who had to make an art of it just to capture one. He looked Charlus over. "I have yet to see the product, but I've heard enough to have me interested." Not the exact truth, but then, he was a diplomat.

Charlus's forehead creased. "I see." He took a long swallow from his own glass. "And this product would be . . . ?"

Marvolo waited for several moments, allowing the silence to drag out between them. He had his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers entwined, his haunting dark eyes gazing unblinkingly forward. He wanted to time it just right.

Just as Charlus was about to take another drink of his Firewhisky, Marvolo licked his lips.

_Now._

"Your granddaughter."

Charlus gagged, which Marvolo knew had to be painful. He almost had to admire the man for his relative calm. His eyes barely watered.

Several long moments passed again, and Marvolo relaxed into his seat and sipped his Firewhisky. His eyes never left Old Charlus as he recovered, swallowing heavily several times and calling for a house-elf to bring him water. Poor sod.

"I beg your pardon? I believe I misheard you," Charlus finally said when he was sufficiently recovered. His face was tinged red and his collar seemed a bit tight. If not for his impeccable training, Marvolo knew Charlus would have tried to loosen his cravat by now.

"You heard correctly," was his simple reply.

"I heard—?"

"Yes."

Charlus looked flabbergasted. Marvolo didn't blame him. "She is not yet—"

"I know, not until later this month, but the tides in the Lone Islands are such that—well—" He shrugged his shoulders. "If I wished to arrive before she turned twenty-five I had to arrive nearly eleven months early, and ten months in the manor without company after the excitement of the Court . . ." He allowed the words to hang between them.

Old Charlus—he had sunk into his chair, acting the grandfather and not the part of a lord—nodded as if he understood, though of course he didn't. No one who had never been to the Lone Islands could possibly comprehend.

"Still, it's a bit early."

"Naturally." Marvolo wanted to laugh at his accommodating tone. He didn't have an accommodating bone in his body. "Still, I would prefer—" He paused, knowing that Old Charlus was waiting on his every word. He wouldn't interrupt the Lord of Slytherin and survivor of the Lone Islands, a virtual death sentence no matter the honor of his position. "I would prefer," Marvolo began again, "if your granddaughter was not made aware of my exact identity throughout the process."

Charlus scoffed, which was bold of him. Then again, Marvolo mused, he _had_ been in Gryffindor. "You don't even know if you'll get past a first marriage date."

Well, at least the idiot was conceding that the family would, of course, accept him. How could he possibly not be?

"Yes, well, one desires a bride to not be enamored with one's unparalleled position in all of wizardom." It took every ounce of control Marvolo had not to sound smug with those words.

"Naturally." Charlus's response was sarcastic.

"Then we have an understanding?" Marvolo inquired with an arched brow.

Charlus looked like he had swallowed something sour, but he also appeared faintly amused, as if he knew something Marvolo didn't. "We have an understanding."

Marvolo did not remain to mince words, but returned in a swirl of robes and flames to his house in Northern England. The event was still two weeks away, but he was impatient. So, with a flick of his quill, he began to write out his formal proposal, reminding himself that his quickened heartbeat was because of the impending chase and not that strange emotion he had deemed sentiment.


	3. Part the Second

**Part the Second**

Haesel and Henry reappeared in a chamber that was floor-to-ceiling yellow marble—the Apparition Chamber in The Golden Fleece. The Golden Fleece was the elite pureblood club that forbade the use of offensive magic and provided entertainment for those worthy (and lucky) enough to be allowed entrance. The Potters were invited and written down in the books when it first opened centuries ago.

"Yes!" Henry said, pumping one fist in the air as he squeezed Haesel against his side. "I love it here!"

"I know," Haesel replied with an amused smile. Her brother had been banned (by their grandfather) from entering The Golden Fleece alone after an incident involving some products Messrs. Fred and George Weasley sold him. Though her father had been proud of Henry, her mother and grandparents hadn't been amused in the least. As a result, he could only come when someone had the time and inclination to chaperone him.

Henry picked Haesel up and spun her in a circle, laughing gleefully. The edge of her tunic lifted, and she worried that someone walking by would catch a glimpse up it. "Thank you! Thank you!" Henry cheered.

"All right, you're welcome. Put me down now! We're keeping the chamber occupied. That's rude," she chided as he set her back on her feet. Haesel smoothed the tunic down as far as it would go, and then took a fortifying breath. Here she was, two weeks from her coming of age gala, about to enter a premier club in wizard's clothing. The knowledge that she should go home and change fluttered through her mind, but she discounted it. This tunic was comfortable, she looked good in it, and she had never been one to care about others' opinions (excluding her family and closest friends).

"Let's go, then!" said Henry as he offered her his arm, a gallant smile on his face. His eyes twinkled at her, daring her to take it and let him act as escort. "My lady." He bowed mockingly.

"How gallant you are, Master Potter," she teased. Haesel laid her right arm atop his left, her open palm resting over the back of his hand. The sleeve of her tunic slid up to reveal her wrist, and she could practically hear the outrage in her mother's voice; how dare she display ankle, calf, knee, and wrist? Why, she might as well be nude!

Henry tilted his chin and stuck his nose in the air. "I daresay, Lady Haesel, that the peerage will be quite jealous I've been gifted with your company. The most beautiful woman in England—on my arm! Why, they shall simply faint with envy."

A soft snort escaped her, though she would deny it to her dying day. "That's enough, git. Let's go do something. I didn't escape the manor to stare at yellow marble or your face all day."

Henry pouted as he led her toward the exit. "I'll have you know that many people find me quite attractive."

Her laughter was soft and musical, drawing attention as they stepped into the club proper. "Don't worry, Henry. I'm sure plenty of people are dying to bond with you for more than your fortune." She bit her lower lip. "If only fortune-hunters were my only worry."

Sighing, Henry flipped his arm over and rubbed his thumb across her palm. "We'll keep you safe," he promised.

That was a Potter vow, and one she had heard many times in her life. Though she was unable to remember the first vow on her own, she had seen it in her father's Pensieve. Whenever a daughter was born into the family, all of her male relatives were required to offer a Vow of Protection. Because a Potter's word could not be broken by any means, it ensured that their female children could never be taken against their will, deflowered against their will, or abused. If such a situation were eminent, all Potter males bound to the female in danger would be forcibly Apparated to her side; it was their ultimate protection, and one of the Potter family's greatest secrets.

"I know." The Vow of Protection was all that kept her sane sometimes. When she was in a crowded place, such as Diagon Alley or Hogwarts, wizards stared at her with a cocktail of lust, greed, and pride in their eyes. She often felt the need to bathe herself clean of their emotions, which her magic amplified and warned her against.

She didn't want to be seen as a bigot, but she felt safest around purebloods. They had their own money and power; they valued bloodlines and honor above all else. A pureblood was nothing without honor. Unlike the Muggle-born students, they would never be so crass as to ask her out on a date, like that revolting Dean Thomas had. He had not only asked her on a date, of all things—as if she were a common Muggle with no family responsibilities—but he had suggested their date be in solitude. How dare he present a situation that could bring her virtue into question? Then, as if her humiliation and anger at the situation weren't enough, he had dared to make such a request in front of several purebloods! Luckily for her, her mum's youngest brother—Uncle Valerius—had been present at the time, being only a year older than herself. He and several of the other Slytherins had cursed and hexed Thomas until he acquired a three-week stay in St. Mungo's. Haesel would wager it would have been worse for him, but Professor Black had to step in when Professor McGonagall turned the corner.

"Haesel, darling! So good to see you!"

Suppressing the blush that wanted to rise as she realized she hadn't been paying attention to her surroundings, Haesel grinned up at her favorite teacher. "Uncle Regulus, how are you?" She tilted her head out of habit, and he leaned down to kiss both of her cheeks. She returned the loving gesture. It was always so hard to remember to call him 'Professor Black' at school, because he and Sirius were her favorite uncles from her father's side of the family. She had heard stories about Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin (two more of her father's dear friends), but she had never met them; Pettigrew had died of a virulent case of dragon pox, and Lupin had married a Muggle and moved out of the country.

"I'm well, darling. Better now that you're here. I didn't think you'd ever escape Cousin Dorea's clutches, let alone your mother's," Regulus replied.

"It was a near thing, but worth the effort."

Gray eyes swept down her figure. "I must say, I can't believe you're wearing it," said Regulus, as he gestured to her tunic.

"Neither can Mum or Grandmama," she whispered, grinning cheekily as her brother and uncle laughed with her.

It was hard to imagine Regulus being distant from her father and Uncle Sirius, but she had heard the stories many times. Regulus had been fostered to foreign purebloods, instead of English ones, and Sirius had been extremely displeased with his parents for it; foreign fosterings lasted five years, instead of the traditional one. So Sirius had insisted on staying with the Potters after his own fostering had ended, claiming he wouldn't set one foot on any Black property until his little brother was returned by the "relative-stealing Italians who would turn Regulus into a Casanova". Blacks were faithful, and he hadn't been able to abide the thought of his brother picking up the Italians' unsavory habit of allowing pureblood men to keep as many mistresses as they could afford. Luckily, Regulus came home with full knowledge of the Italian language, a charming accent that still colored his speech, and a love for pasta. He found the pureblood wizards' lack of fidelity as revolting as ever. If he hadn't, Haesel wondered if it would have torn the Black family apart.

"And how's the little king today?" Regulus asked Henry.

Though the Blacks used stars and constellations to name their children, it was a Potter family tradition to name the eldest male son after an English king. Grandfather Charlus's own father was seen as something of a rebel for using an alternate spelling of 'Charles'. Henry claimed he would name his firstborn son Arthur, much to their father's amusement and grandfather's consternation.

"Grateful to be here," said Henry. "What are you doing here, Uncle Regulus? Are you looking for a fencing opponent?" He bounced on the balls of his feet as he asked.

"I'm afraid Regulus has already engaged me for his next match, Master Potter."

Haesel glanced to her left and locked gazes with Lord Evan Rosier. He had plain brown eyes and hair, and thin lips. Without the aquiline nose and high, sharp cheekbones, he wouldn't have resembled a pureblood.

Evan bowed to her, his face expressionless, as it had been every time she had ever seen it. "Lady Haesel. My apologies for interrupting." His monotone voice neither confirmed nor denied the validity of his words.

"Apology accepted, Lord Rosier," Haesel replied as she inclined her head to him. The short curtsey she gave should have looked ridiculous, given the length of the tunic, and that she was wearing a tunic at all, but she made it look elegant instead of awkward. She also didn't miss the many eyes that were drawn to her legs; she ignored them, though, when said gazes didn't reveal anything but admiration.

"Our fencing hall is ready, Regulus," Evan said, revealing the reason he had intruded upon their conversation.

"It's that time already? Very well, Evan. I'll be along in just a minute," Regulus said. He turned his attention back to Henry. "Another time, all right?"

"Soon?" asked Henry.

"Yes, soon." Before Henry could open his mouth again, Regulus said, "I promise."

"I'll hold you to that."

Chuckling, Regulus nodded. "I know. I know." He patted Henry on the shoulder and then faced Haesel, lifting one hand to cup her right cheek. "Will you two be able to join me for dinner? It's been much too long since we shared a meal."

"Oh, please! Can we, Haesel?"

She rolled her eyes at her brother and then nodded to her uncle. "We'd be delighted, Uncle Regulus. Where would you like to meet?" Did he want to use one of the dining rooms here? Or was he thinking of a family dinner with the Blacks? Perhaps he had a new restaurant in mind? Knowing Uncle Regulus, it was the latter; he was obsessed with frequenting the newest premier eateries.

Regulus twirled his finger, indicating the lobby they stood within. It resembled the inside of an ash tree—with rings on the floor and grained walls. Each exit from the lobby seemed to be a branch growing off a massive tree. Technically, the lobby was the Yggdrasil room; each room in the club had its own name, based off décor or purpose. "Six o'clock work for you?" he asked.

Haesel cocked an eyebrow and smirked at her brother. "Think we can entertain ourselves for five hours?" When Henry grinned wickedly, she clarified, "Without using any Weasley products, causing mayhem, or starting a blood feud."

Henry pouted and pulled away from her, as if she had just threatened to assassinate pranksters all over the world. "Six o'clock will be fine," he said to Regulus, never taking his hurt-filled eyes off Haesel.

"See you then." He turned and left for his match.

"Mentioning all the fun things I can't do is just mean," Henry said. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had stuck out his tongue; in fact, she was impressed he didn't, since they were in public.

Haesel rested her hand on his arm in consolation. "I just need you to focus on all the fun things that you _can_ do."

He shrugged. "This is your escape attempt. What do you want to do?" The serious tone of his voice gave her pause and reminded her that her brother was growing up. Just a year ago, he would've waved his arm and dragged her off to do whatever had caught his fancy. Now he was trying to get her mind off her coming of age gala (nightmare) and was willing to let her pick what they did.

She saw the other wizards and witches in the room observing her and her brother. _They likely want to see what we pick and then happen to choose the same pastime_, she thought snidely. She wasn't in the mood to offer more fodder for gossip. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate; she was out in public wearing wizard's clothing, after all. She meant she wasn't in the mood to gossip, or answer countless questions from strangers and acquaintances—not that she ever was. Haesel prized her privacy above most things in life.

"At this time of year the Jasmine room is doubtlessly booked," she said. The Jasmine room was a tearoom with an attached oriental garden. Her parents had met there on their first marriage date, and she adored it too. Their parents had instilled a love of the tea ceremony in both of them, despite its general feminine appeal. Elegance in any form was beautiful. However, the Jasmine room was constantly booked because of marriage dates and various other events.

"Doubtlessly," Henry agreed.

It was so popular that to request it without weeks' notice would make them look like utter fools. Haesel, like most people, loathed making an idiot of herself. Therefore, they would have to do something else.

Haesel's second favorite room wouldn't guarantee them privacy at all. Whereas the Jasmine room was restricted to three or less occupants, the Gallery allowed fifty or less. Still, both she and Henry were artistic; her family was a firm supporter of the arts and both she and her brother were the pupils of many, many tutors growing up.

"The Gallery? We've not painted in months."

"Brilliant idea, Haesel. Let's go paint!"

Delighted smiles graced the countenances of the purebloods around them, and Haesel wondered if the Gallery would already be full to capacity before they even reached it; wizards and witches left the Yggdrasil room as quickly as was polite, almost all of them heading down the hallway that led to the Gallery.

Once the lobby was almost empty, Henry leaned down and whispered, "Did you still want to paint, or was that a decoy plan to make them all go away so we could sneak off to a different room?"

Haesel giggled, one hand raised to block the few remaining people from witnessing her amusement. "I did want to paint, but now that so many people will be there, likely waiting to interrogate me—"

"Very politely and properly, of course," Henry interjected.

"Oh, of course!" Haesel agreed. "I daresay just about any other activity and room suddenly holds a greater appeal." It was a pity, because she really _did_ miss painting. However, the last thing she wanted was to listen to endless chatter about her coming of age gala, suitors, dancing, etc., etc., etc., ad nauseam. And she had no doubt, whatsoever, that such things would be the primary topic of conversation. She had fled the manor to avoid all that; toppling into a pool of similar questions and suggestions defeated the whole point of coming here.

"I couldn't agree more," Henry said. The few wizards in the room smirked in their direction at the assertion, which was louder than normal. He had a habit of getting louder and more boisterous when he was excited about something—such as accidentally tricking a mass of people into leaving them alone.

Haesel laughed gaily. "Why don't we go—?"

"Haesel!" a voice hollered, distracting her from her line of thought and causing her to spin in shock. He never yelled at her in public! "Please, for the love of Merlin and Morgana, do me a favor and kill me this instant!"

* * *

Marvolo wished to escape Riddle Manor. As wonderful as the house-elves were doing with it since his return, it still lacked a woman's touch, or indeed any hint that anyone lived there. Marvolo, in his mind, was much like a ghost when it came to the sprawling manor. His presence was barely noticeable to anyone who happened by—with or without the many protection charms on the property.

With a pinch of Floo powder, he whispered two words: "Malfoy Manor." As the green flames engulfed him, he absently wondered if Abraxas was still alive. He must be. The man was about his age! It would be preposterous if he were not.

And yet the cowering house-elf—really, Marvolo almost wanted to kick the thing—told him that Abraxas had been dead twenty years as he handed over his card.

"Dead? From what?" He did not allow his face to show any shock, but still, Abraxas had been at Hogwarts with him, had been one of his followers when he (briefly) had dreams of grandeur and of becoming the next Dark Lord. That was before Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald and he saw just how happy the sheep-like populace was about the entire affair. It really was quite shocking—and life changing, in his case.

"It is nots for Dobby to say, m-milord," the creature responded. He looked about ready to stick his head down a loo, his big eyes filled with disgusting purple tears.

"The Master of the House, then," was his dismissive response.

"Master Lucius be out with young Master Draco," the little creature said.

Really, this was getting most vexing.

"Then the Mistress." Marvolo barely contained the impatience in his voice. Really. These were calling hours, after all. If _she _wasn't in, then Marvolo might be aggravated enough to find alternate entertainment. In the olden days, he would have found a witch for a dalliance, but that didn't appeal to him now. Not with the whiff of sheer magical power that had danced about the hemline of Lady Haesel's skirts. _Nothing_ and _no one _could compare with that.

Sentiment. Again.

"Mistress be right this way," the house-elf answered.

He hit the creature with the top of his cane just for good form—really, he could just see the self-harm brimming in the house-elf's eyes, and hopefully he would think that he had been properly punished and not go overboard. There was nothing worse than a servant that just didn't know when to stop hurting and maiming itself. What use was a house-elf if it had ironed its hands and couldn't properly make tea? Sometimes Marvolo wondered if they had any brain function at all.

Dobby led Marvolo through the main foyer, up an elaborate staircase, and into a very comfortable sitting room on the second floor. It was feminine and done in light blues, the safe haven of a lady. The woods were all light and airy. Glass doors that led out to a terrace were open, letting in a gentle and calming breeze. It was utterly charming, if not a bit predictable. Then again, for a Black it was almost downright scandalous.

Two women were sitting on a settee, drinking tea with their heads pressed together. One was obviously a Black. With an ample bosom and dark hair, she couldn't be anything but a Black. Her eyes were hooded and the deep blue dress she wore highlighted her long, pale neck. Marvolo's gaze, if he had been any other wizard, would have swept over her, as the lady no doubt intended. Although she was clearly in her mid-forties, she was nonetheless breathtaking.

The second woman Marvolo presumed to be Lady Malfoy's guest. She was nearly as beautiful as Lady Malfoy, although with much softer coloring. Her hair was a stunning gold that fell in ringlets about her shoulders and down her back. Her figure was thinner, more sylph-esque, more like the ladies of the Lone Islands. She barely had any hips, reminding Marvolo of the Muggle cut outs he had seen at the orphanage from his youth of androgynous beauties during the 1920s. Still, her cheekbones were high, her nose slightly upturned, and her blue eyes sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. If she had been sitting next to anyone but a Black, she would have gained any wizard's attention. Sadly, her choice of companion meant that all attention would instantly be taken away from her. Where this unknown lady was all light and air, Lady Malfoy was temptation and dark seduction.

"Mistress," Dobby stated, holding out the silver tray with Marvolo's card on it. The ladies turned to look at the house-elf. The fair-haired one, surprisingly, took the card in her elegant hand. Upon glancing at it, her eyebrows rose minimally, before her eyes flicked to Marvolo's figure near the doorway.

She stood, the other lady who seemed _not_ to be Lady Malfoy, following a second later although she hadn't read the card. The witch in the pink robes had immediately set it down again when her eyes caught Marvolo's gaze. "Lord Slytherin," she greeted, extending her hand, "I am Narcissa, the Lady Malfoy." She smiled ingratiatingly at him.

Not missing a moment despite his surprise—had Abraxas's child _not_ married a Black or was this lady simply a genetic throwback in the line?—Marvolo advanced. He took Narcissa's hand in his own and raised it to just below his lips before releasing it, never letting his dark gaze leave his hostess's.

"Lady Malfoy, a true pleasure," he said, lips curling in what might pass as a smile.

Narcissa curtsied to him, her head bowed low and her décolletage perfectly on display before him, before rising again and meeting his eyes. "I apologize for my husband's absence this afternoon. If Lord Malfoy had known that you would be gracing us with your esteemed presence . . ."

"Not at all," he cut her off politely before she could feel any more embarrassed. Marvolo was nothing if not charming. "And who might your friend be, Lady Malfoy?"

The lady in question curtsied lowly, daring to glance up at him through her eyelashes before lowering them again submissively.

Ah. He knew the type. Whoever she was she was unhappy with her bonding _or_ simply wanted his power in any form she could get it, even by debasing herself to becoming his mistress. Or both. Marvolo, even if he were interested, was not indiscreet, especially with a prize like Lady Haesel so close to being his. He would not jeopardize securing her as the mother of his heirs for any witch, even a dark beauty like this one.

"My sister, Bellatrix, the Lady Lestrange," Narcissa answered.

Bellatrix offered her hand. Marvolo grasped it out of politeness but barely lifted it, clearly dismissing her silent offer.

Her lips twitched in agitation. She was a true Black then, spoilt to the core.

"Please, ladies," he said, making a sweeping movement with his arm. The sisters resumed their seats and, a moment later, Marvolo sank into a comfortable armchair. A cup of tea was immediately beside him, warm and steaming.

"I hope that you do not mind Earl Grey, my lord," Narcissa began. "We have other blends if it is your wish, but when my sister and I have an afternoon together, we usually favor this one."

She smiled at him again, the perfect hostess. He could see why the Malfoy whelp had chosen her. Well, that and her coloring. Any child she and a Malfoy would produce would be fair-haired and fair-skinned. Malfoys were nothing if not vain and creatures of habit. It would not have mattered if Lord Malfoy had wished to bond with Lady Lestrange, he still would have chosen his current wife for tradition alone. The entire alliance made more sense now.

"Earl Grey is more than agreeable, Lady Malfoy." To make a point, he picked up his cup and sipped it. It was the finest money could buy. The Lone Islands did not have tea at all; it was one of the few comforts of England that he had missed when away, all of these decades.

Bellatrix flicked her hair over one shoulder, baring her neck, and pursed her deep red lips at him. Clearly, she hadn't given up. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit, Lord Slytherin?"

"I wished to speak to my old friend Abraxas, only to hear that he had passed on while I was in the Lone Islands." He spoke to Narcissa and could see Bellatrix flick her hair in annoyance at his obvious lack of interest in her.

"He tragically died of Dragon Pox nearly fifteen years ago," Narcissa recounted, her eyes lowering. "Poor Draco, Lacerta, and Iolanthe—my children, Lord Slytherin—never had the chance to know any of their grandparents."

_Ah, the perfect opening_. Marvolo hid a smirk behind his teacup. He couldn't have planned it better himself. "Is Master Malfoy not of age, then? And your daughters?" he inquired politely.

"Draco is just seventeen," Narcissa answered proudly. "He was too young, though, to remember his grandfather. Lacerta is three years younger, and little Io just completed her very first year at Hogwarts." She was obviously a proud and doting mother.

"In Hufflepuff," Bellatrix muttered under her breath with disapproval.

Marvolo ignored the latter comment and inclined his head in acknowledgement to Narcissa. "I'm sorry for the Malfoy family's loss," he murmured, intentionally leaving Bellatrix out. She was batting her eyelashes. Really. Some women were all the same. "Is your son looking forward to the seasons?"

There was no set wizarding season for pureblood ladies. When they were of age or ready to be debuted by their families, usually between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, they were presented. The summer was the most popular time because Hogwarts was not in session, but marriage dates continued throughout all four seasons.

"Indeed," Narcissa replied with a gracious smile. "You may not have heard, but Lady Haesel Potter is about to come of age. She is the most powerful witch of her generation."

"It's a shame, though," Bellatrix added, "that her family decided to keep her from going on marriage dates before her debut. Often a young lady might be betrothed at this point. Though, for a lady with such power—"

"Yes," Marvolo interrupted. "I imagine her family wished her to have all the options she could, given her magical prowess." His eyes flicked back to Narcissa. "I take it your son means to try for her?"

"Of course," she responded.

He knew such matters were rarely discussed outside of a family before a formal declaration was made, but Marvolo was a member of the oligarchy and Ambassador to the Lone Islands. He had deigned to visit, deigned to remain when his classmate was dead and only ladies of the house were at home, deigned to take tea with them. The honor and privilege was all theirs. They would answer his questions because _he_ asked them politely and privately. To do anything less would be rude and potential social suicide if it got out—and if Lady Malfoy had learned anything from her father-in-law about him, it would be that Marvolo did not allow rudeness to go unchecked.

Narcissa sipped her tea, her head tilted to the side. "Draco and Lady Haesel are year-mates at Hogwarts."

"And you, Lady Lestrange. Do you have any unattached sons who shall try against their cousin?"

A flush of shame filled her cheeks. Ah, it was nice to see that Bellatrix could do something other than flirt shamelessly with him in the presence of her sister.

Narcissa glanced at Bellatrix. "My sister has yet to be blessed with children," she answered diplomatically.

Sterile, in other words. Interesting.

"Master Lestrange, however, will try for her hand, if I am not much mistaken," Narcissa continued.

Marvolo looked at her in question.

"My brother-in-law, Rabastan." Bellatrix's voice was bitter.

A deep laugh threatened to rumble out of Marvolo's chest, but he withheld it and smirked. Marvolo was nothing if not self-controlled.

Still, it was interesting information. Bellatrix was sterile, or her husband didn't desire her. Lord Lestrange had a younger, unmarried brother who may have been waiting for a powerful witch, such as Lady Haesel, to come of age. Or Master Lestrange at least now recognized that he would most likely be Lord Lestrange and, if not, his son could be.

"Lady Rana Lestrange is a year older than both Draco and Lady Haesel," Narcissa explained. "Lady Rana is Lord Lestrange's only child by our other sister, Andromeda, who sadly died in childbirth."

"I grieve with thee." The words felt brittle on his tongue, so unused to uttering the standard wizarding phrase in such intimate cases of loss. Witches, despite their magic, sometimes died in childbirth. Many witches who almost died, though survived childbirth, almost exclusively gave birth to Squibs. Those who died were believed to have willingly given their magic to their child—and there was no greater honor or sacrifice a witch could make for her child. That the motherless children may have been Squibs held no stigma, as they were often strong magically and were sometimes believed to be instant reincarnations of their deceased mothers.

"Thank you," Narcissa whispered. Bellatrix looked away; conflicted feelings were written along the tightening of her jaw. Marvolo thought she must feel it acutely. Married to her sister's husband and unable to give him a son, when her own sister had given up her life for his only child, would be the ultimate humiliation.

"Lady Rana?" he prompted.

There was a pause. Bellatrix stared out the window, her mind apparently elsewhere.

"She is a close acquaintance of Lady Haesel," Narcissa replied, setting down her own teacup and smoothing out a crease in her robes near her knees. "Dear Rana has often brought her to visit Malfoy Manor to go riding. My husband, Lucius, has a stable full of Abraxans, and both young ladies are fond of riding. And, well, I'm always happy to see my niece as often as possible."

"Of course," he responded. That was to be expected, especially given the information he had just received concerning her deceased sister. "And Lady Haesel?"

"She is a delight," Narcissa supplied with another one of her sweet and charming smiles. "She has the Potter spirit, naturally, but she is thoroughly the pureblood lady. May I ask why you are so interested, my lord, if I am not being too forward?"

"Of course, my dear lady," he replied with a smile. He refrained from baring his teeth, a frightening and yet attractive sight. "If, by any chance, your son is offered Lady Haesel's maiden dance, which I believe unlikely but nonetheless a possibility, I wish for him to respectfully decline." The request was bold for a drawing room, but, well, he was _Lord Slytherin_. Also, given his conversation with Old Charlus, he doubted anyone but himself (or possibly a godbrother of Lady Haesel's) would be given her maiden dance, unless she had some kind of preference.

Bellatrix's head snapped toward him in shock. "You mean to try for her?" The question was impertinent, coming from her lips, especially as she did not address him properly.

"Normally, Lady Malfoy, I would make such a request of your husband."

"O-of course, my lord. I once again apologize for his absence."

He waved his hand. "There is no need. My visit was one of impulse and unplanned. If you and your husband would be so kind as to take my request under consideration?"

"But of course, my lord." She bowed her head in a polite form of submission.

"Thank you, Lady Malfoy. Does, by any chance, Lady Haesel have godsiblings to your knowledge?" He looked between the sisters in feigned politeness. This really was too simple.

"One that's of age," Bellatrix answered, barely suppressed anger in her voice. Marvolo looked at her, his eyes hard. She swallowed. "One, my lord."

"And he is?"

Narcissa answered this time. "Heir Longbottom, the son of Lord Frank Longbottom and Lady Alice. His given name, I believe, is Neville, my lord."

Ah, the Longbottoms. The family was entirely too suitable for his tastes. Light all the way through, and without any spark. He doubted a Longbottom could gain, let alone keep, the interest of someone as powerful as Lady Haesel.

"Thank you, Lady Malfoy," he replied, standing to take his leave. The two sisters across from him stood as well. It appeared, then, that he had another visit to make before seeing about dinner.


	4. Part the Third

**Part the Third**

"Zach, what's the matter?" Haesel asked, stunned by the horror, helpless disgust, and anger in his eyes. It took her a moment to realize she had shortened his given name and addressed him casually in public, but she batted the thought from her mind. It didn't matter what anyone thought of the situation. Zacharias Smith was her best friend; he didn't treat her like she was made of crystal, or like she should be placed upon a pedestal and worshipped. He gave her the bare minimum amount of proper respect she deserved, and then treated her like a normal person. She adored him for it. If there had ever been a spark of attraction between them, she would have ignored her family's deliberations and ordered him to accept her first waltz.

As it was, having each dueled for the other's honor more than once, they shared something of a symbiotic sibling bond. He was one of a very limited number of people that she trusted implicitly.

His magic lashed out, reeking of distaste, as he strode across the room. Everyone's attention was centered on him (which he usually adored), but he wasn't grinning smugly. His handsome face was twisted, lips spread in a tight frown. His blond hair seemed to defy gravity, and his brown eyes spat hatred. With every step closer he took, she could see how much he had grown during his magical maturity a month earlier; she had been livid when her parents had forbidden her from attending his party, and had to settle for sending him the newest broom on the market: a Solar Flare.

What her parents didn't know was that she had Apparated to Smith Castle that night and spent hours with him. He deserved more than a gift sent by owl just because she was 'coming out' soon. She owed him more loyalty than that.

"I'm serious, Haesel. Kill me. Right now would be brilliant," he snapped as he stopped before her, chest rising and falling. He raised one hand and shoved it through his short hair agitatedly.

Haesel placed one hand on his chest, over his thudding heart. "Zach, tell me what's wrong," she ordered. Her voice was hard as diamond. Zach loved life and himself too much to ever ask such a favor from her—and she would never kill him. Never. What had caused her best friend to so utterly lose his composure?

Zach leaned down until his face was obscenely close to hers. She could feel his breath on her lips when he said, "Mother arranged a marriage date with Granger."

What had he just said? "Beg pardon?" She couldn't possibly have heard that right. Lady Smith had arranged a marriage date for her son, a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff (from the main line), with a Muggle-born?

He grabbed her hand, which made Henry step even closer to her. Before her brother could open his mouth, Zach yanked her hand upward, pulled her wand from her holster into her hand, and then pointed it at his throat. "Kill me." He had been forced to lean back as he manhandled her, but he bent his head just enough to whisper, "Don't make me beg, Haesel. Just do it."

"Offensive magic doesn't work here. You know that," Henry interjected, gaze narrowed on Zach. "She couldn't kill you even if she felt like it." He balled his hands into fists. "But I will gladly rearrange your face if you don't release her, Smith," Henry spat. "You're bruising her."

"Don't be ridiculous, Henry," Haesel said absently as she drafted and discarded scenarios one after the other. "Zach would never hurt me."

"I would never hurt her," Zach snarled at the same time, completely insulted.

"Then prove it," Henry said. His jaw was locked and, for just a moment, the resemblance to their father was uncanny. Haesel couldn't remember seeing that look since a wizard in Diagon Alley had dared to proposition her mother—in front of her father, no less. The wizard's suffering for doing so had been great indeed.

Zach loosened his hold and kissed her wrists apologetically. "Haesel, may I request your company elsewhere, then? Just outside the wards would be acceptable." The shadow on his countenance tugged at her heart. How could his mother do something like this to him?

"You didn't tell her?" Haesel guessed. Zach was deeply, irrevocably in love already. To be told he had to attend a marriage date with someone else—and Granger, of all people—must feel like a terrible betrayal.

"She wouldn't listen to me," Zach gritted out. "She's always worse when Father's out of the country on business. You know that."

Indeed, she did. Lady Ophelia Smith had been born into a pureblood family of low standing and little wealth. Catching the eye of Lord Smith was her greatest achievement in life. Unfortunately, the wealth and power of being Lady of a high-ranking family had gone to her head. In her husband's absence, she pretended she held all the power and control. Since it was a mother's duty to organize marriage dates, Zach would be subjected to as many as Lady Smith wished to arrange.

"But Granger?" Haesel asked in disbelief. Why would Lady Smith even consider a Muggle-born, let alone _that_ one? Haesel had nothing against Muggle-borns in general, but she couldn't stand Hermione Granger.

"Aside from yourself and Lady Daphne, she has the next highest grades in our year."

Lady Smith had picked Granger because of her school grades? Was she mental?

Henry cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him. "I'm afraid I couldn't help but overhear. Your mother set up a marriage date with Hermione Granger, correct?"

Zach nodded sharply, eyes haunted.

Haesel felt terrible for him. When word got out that his first marriage date had been with Granger (for the girl would definitely gloat about it) the purebloods wouldn't understand at all. The witches would feel like he thought a Muggle-born was better than them, and their fathers, brothers, and mothers would be rightfully offended on their behalf. No pureblood parents would want to associate with him after that. Lady Smith should use her brain, not utilize her obsessive, petty need to feel important!

Dusky red colored Henry's cheeks as he glanced down at the floor. "In that case, I am honor-bound to inform you that the female in question is without virtue. As such, the marriage date is void."

Haesel blinked and barely kept her jaw from dropping in shock. She knew Granger was a know-it-all, who often lorded her knowledge over others and refused to accept the wizarding way of life (saying house-elves were enslaved and purebloods were _wrong_ about most everything), but she would never have guessed that the uptight girl would _give her virginity away_ before bonding! What a loathsome thing to do! Had she no self-respect?

"You're absolutely positive?" Zach asked, eyes narrowed and voice harsh.

Henry nodded. "I . . . chanced upon her and a pureblood wizard in _flagrante delicto_ last year at Hogwarts."

_It must have been a Weasley_, Haesel thought viciously. _Definitely Ronald. Every other pureblood wizard I know would've been smart enough to ensure total privacy before_ . . . She couldn't even finish the thought. How dare they subject her little brother to something like that? What if one of the young witches had walked in on them? The girls would have been traumatized for life! Just thinking of stumbling across something like that made her feel ill.

"I'm sorry, Haesel, for having to speak of such things in your presence," Henry whispered. He was mortified, but it wasn't his fault, and he was saving her friend's chance at love.

"It's of no consequence," she said, even though she felt dirty. She didn't want such pictures in her mind; they had no place there.

"Then I won't need you to kill me, Haesel," Zach said. His shoulders sagged with relief, muscles unknotting. He smiled, finally, and then kissed Haesel's cheeks. The people still present in the room—who had been unable to hear anything but Zach and Haesel's very first words to each other, because of the distance between them—eyed Zach suspiciously, as if they thought he would attack her.

"Where were you supposed to meet her?" asked Haesel.

Zach paled, as if he might faint. "In the Muggle world."

"Right. I know you don't like tattling, but your father needs to know what his wife is doing. You're his only son, and you deserve better than Granger. The very best. If she insists on being difficult, and your father won't take her in hand, then we'll gladly give you asylum," said Haesel. Her words was much too daring, but she didn't care. Her friend was more important than the polite rules of society.

"I will," Zach agreed. "I . . ." He swallowed and stared into her eyes. "I couldn't bear to lose her before I've even received a chance to win her," he whispered.

"Well, you haven't lost her yet. I can't imagine you losing her at all," Haesel said as she turned and placed one arm atop his, and her other atop her brother's. Zach had fallen hopelessly in love with Rose Zeller, a Hufflepuff several years younger than they were. She could still remember the perfect blend of magic that occurred when Rose was Sorted. She had felt Zach's magic react and brush against Rose's; they were such a close match magically that she knew Rose would never settle for anyone but Zach, unless he was stolen from her by Lady Smith's asinine machinations.

Rose was a sweet girl with scarlet hair down to her hips and aureate eyes from her mother's line. She was innocent, loving, and would make an ideal wife for Zach. Haesel had ensured that Rose knew she could come to Haesel for any reason at all.

Haesel had never offered asylum to anyone before, but she meant it whole-heartedly. She would not allow Lady Smith to ruin her best friend's future.

Now that Zach was calm, he was much more handsome. "What do we have planned?" asked Zach, neatly insinuating himself into their afternoon.

"Well, we were headed for the Gallery. . . ." Henry's voice trailed off as he stared down at her.

"What would you like to do now, Haesel?" inquired Zach, purposely leaving off her title and smirking at the closest wizards, who frowned at him in blatant disapproval.

"Treating _her_, of all people, that way."

"Some of this younger generation possesses no manners."

"What's her brother thinking, letting that ingrate anywhere near her?"

"He grabbed her as if she were a Muggle!"

Haesel rolled her eyes at them before pondering Zach's question. Honestly, she felt like riding. However, doing so in the tunic she currently wore would be more than inappropriate. It would hitch up about her mid-thigh, and that was something she would not allow, even to be defiant.

"We said we'd go to the Gallery. I'll not be called a liar," said Haesel. Even if they didn't stay for long, honor demanded that she and her brother make an appearance.

"Now there's a proper lady," one ancient wizard muttered. "If only I were younger."

Haesel decided to be flattered, instead of horrified. However, she felt the arms underneath hers shaking with amusement. Her escorts were such children, she thought fondly. Though, to be fair, Lord Wallace's comment had been absurdly entertaining.

"What do you want to bet that Lord Slytherin returned for a chance at winning your hand?" Zach asked, something he had mentioned countless times since _the Prophet_ declared the ambassador's return to England.

Henry smirked. "I hadn't thought of that, but I really should have. People say he was the most powerful wizard of his generation; maybe he finally found someone worthy enough to bear his heirs," he said teasingly as he wiggled his eyebrows.

Haesel winced.

"Why, the very few who have seen him say he doesn't look a day over twenty-five, and that he's dashing. Surely the Perfect Pureblood Princess has caught his attention," Zach said. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. He was ever fond of picking on her, as normal friends often did. He seemed determined to prove she was herself, not some destined witch to be fawned over, and she loved him for that.

"And who could dare resist the great Lord Slytherin?" asked Henry, who was grinning. "Why, you would have even more power, wealth, and prestige than you already do."

Haesel stared down at her toes and sighed.

"Just think of how adorable your children will be!" Zach waved his other arm through the air with excessive enthusiasm. "With an estate as grand as his surely is, heirs are a necessity, of course."

Haesel flinched. "And that is who I would be to him." Her voice was monotone. "If that's why he returned to England, when he has happily resided elsewhere for decades, it's because he heard of my power. My physical appearance would be nothing but a bonus to accompany my magical strength, assuming he likes petite women. If he came back for me, it's because he's looking for a broodmare, someone who can guarantee that his heirs, that his line, will become even more powerful.

"He won't care about my family (other than that it's pureblood and so prestigious), or my friends (unless they can serve him some way), or my personality (except for how he plans to mold it)." Haesel hung her head, wishing that her hair were down so it could hide her face, even though she never wore it down in public. The silence from her brother and best friend was weighted. "If he returned for me, it's because Lord Slytherin desires Lady Haesel Potter's magical prowess to be joined with his and passed to his heirs. It will," she whispered sadly, eyes shimmering with tears she refused to let fall, "have nothing to do with just Haesel. It will be about what I can do, not who I am.

"And that," Haesel said as they approached the Gallery, "is what being Lady Haesel Potter means. Finding a love match for who I am, instead of what I am, will be nigh impossible."

Before either Zach or Henry could reply, she straightened her shoulders and sent a breeze of magic to dry her eyes. Then she stepped inexorably closer to the doors, which opened before them. Everyone in the room turned to face them, including Lord and Heir Malfoy, whom she had hoped to avoid today. Lady Rana Lestrange was sitting dutifully beside her cousin. The genuine happiness on Heir Draco's face was overshadowed by the calculating glint in Lord Malfoy's eyes.

Even here, among acquaintances, she was just something to covet.

She hadn't even had her coming of age gala yet, and Haesel was already tired of being a prize to be won.

* * *

Heir Longbottom, in Marvolo's mind, was a complete waste of space. Not only had he had to sit for a full quarter hour in the presence of the boy and his insufferable grandmother before finding an excuse, but the battle-axe would not stop looking at him questioningly and with far too much suspicion in her eyes.

How he hated society at times.

In the end, he did not make his request. All he had to do was be in the same room as the boy to tell that he was hopelessly in love with his godsister and that his magic was so weak and erratic that she probably loathed his very presence, not that a lady would ever say so.

Lady Haesel, though, was nothing if not intelligent—if the rumors were to be believed. She wouldn't give her first waltz to such a puppy unless absolutely pushed into a corner. And Heir Longbottom was hardly a threat.

He still remembered the recent taste of her magic, fleeting though it was.

Marvolo could practically smell it—jasmine with a hint of baby's breath. It was so simple, so sweet, and so perfect. He was surprised at himself. After the scents of nature in the Lone Islands, he would expect a common flower like jasmine to be boring, but coming from Lady Haesel, his future wife—

The thought of bonding did not produce the usual feeling of duty and resignation that it often had before . . . before . . . Interesting.

Not wishing to return to his empty monolith of a home, Marvolo decided to visit The Golden Fleece. Merlin, it had been an age. He must have been barely twenty-five when he last set foot in this club. Still, as Lord Slytherin, he and his heirs had lifetime memberships—even if he didn't have any heirs yet.

"Lord Slytherin," a house-elf greeted, not bothering to take his wizard's jacket, which was light and made of the finest Acromantula silk. Wizards his age often preferred formal robes, but he much preferred this more elegant style of dress, that could be both casual and sophisticated depending on the occasion. It was the fashion of a young man, but Marvolo was a wizard in a young body. He only hoped that it would catch Lady Haesel's eye, for even in the receiving room, Marvolo could smell her tantalizing scent.

He had come to the right place.

Strolling into the lobby, Marvolo did not pause as the conversations around him halted and several wizards and witches turned to look at him. No one, however, dared to approach. He was so far above them, out of their reach. The thought brought a smirk to his handsome face.

Climbing up the grand staircase, he followed the tantalizing scent that was so distinct from the weaker ones about it. A rush of rainwater was near it, with the same hint of baby's breath. A relative, then. It wasn't as strong, but certainly powerful.

Then the smell of crushed jasmine shifted, coming closer, and Marvolo paused on the staircase, breathing in the air around him. His body stilled and his senses heightened, a talent he had been quick to acquire on the Lone Islands. Touch, taste, sound, _smell_—so much could be learned from just one of them.

It had caused a stir in the Court when he had chosen to blindfold himself for an entire Island month—which was nearly a year in human terms—just to better understand the people he was meant to live among. The senses were a deep magic, one wizards rarely sought to understand. Still, Marvolo used it to his advantage now.

The scent came steadily closer and, unable to help himself, he withdrew into a small antechamber. The curtains whispered against his frame as he hid himself partially from view. He could still make out the grand staircase, but if someone was not searching for him . . .

An unwitting test.

Could Lady Haesel, despite her youth, sense the strong thrum of his magic although they had never met before? She had given no indication in her home, but the structure had been saturated in her family magic. He had barely caught the flowering vapors surrounding her footfalls as she flew up the stairs elegantly, away from the conversation about her debut into wizarding society.

_Come to me_, his mind begged, his heart picking up a beat as the smell got stronger and stronger, weaving its way toward him.

"Perhaps," a voice, young and decidedly masculine, was saying, "Master Potter might accompany you? I know how much you enjoy riding our Abraxans, Lady Haesel, and I am certain my cousin has sorely missed your company the past week. It might also serve as a distraction from your coming debut."

Heir Malfoy, then, Marvolo reasoned. What an arrogant little sod.

"I have not flown Abraxans in quite some time," another voice, also male, answered. Master Potter, most likely.

A snort answered him.

"Zach, just because Abraxans aren't brooms doesn't mean that they're completely worthless when it comes to flying," a light, feminine voice answered.

Marvolo's heart fluttered, despite his attempts at self-control, and he leaned back against a small desk. His arms crossed, he looked out through the gauzy curtains and caught his first true sight of his future bride, because _nothing_ would deter him from winning her hand.

She was petite, slender, her dark hair up in plaits, her eyes flashing in amusement, and—wearing the tunic of a young wizard who had not reached manhood. Her knees were on display, and they were elegant and yet so _very, very human_. They should be dull to him and yet, that tantalizing show of the shape of her legs even through tights, that small form of rebellion . . .

Marvolo licked his suddenly dry lips.

Lady Haesel paused, and he could feel the questioning in her magic as it reached out toward him. So, it seemed she had trained seriously. Letting out a near silent breath, Marvolo unfurled his magic carefully, begging her to come toward him. The shiver that ran down Lady Haesel's spine was almost invisible to the eye, and yet Marvolo still caught it.

"Gentlemen," she said politely as she turned to the young men surrounding her, "please excuse me; I believe I should powder my nose before we take our late tea." She lied through her teeth without any of her companions, even the dark-haired witch, calling her on it.

The young boy at her side, similarly dressed in a tunic, with blond hair and hazel eyes, looked down at her questioningly. Their coloring was so different, and yet they had a similar line to the jaw, and he was the smell of rainwater and baby's breath. He must be her brother, her _younger_ brother, judging by the way he was dressed.

"Would you like me to accompany you, Haesel?"

"No need, Henry," she answered, placing a hand on his arm in reassurance. "I shall be down in a moment."

A look passed between them, a silent message of some kind, and then Master Henry Potter nodded his head in agreement. "Smith? Malfoy?"

The young man with hair so white it could hardly be called blond looked at Lady Haesel with barely disguised longing, but he left her with a gentlemanly bow before following her brother and the witch. The third youth, Smith, gave Lady Haesel a mocking salute as she smiled back at him. He left, too, though.

Lady Haesel waited a moment, her back turned toward the antechamber, her shoulders lifting slightly as she took a deep, steadying breath.

Then, with no hesitation, she spun on her toes and walked to the curtains that separated her from him. Pulling them aside, she did not seem surprised to see the small antechamber occupied, though she paused a moment in the archway before taking another step forward and allowing the veils to fall behind her.

Marvolo's magic jumped in lust and joy, and another shiver ran through Lady Haesel, slightly less contained because of their proximity.

"You called?" she questioned, dispensing with formalities, and Marvolo could only smile charmingly at her. She was bold, honest, and forthright. She was shamelessly wearing boys' clothing. She was perfect.

"You answered," he responded after a moment, his voice cascading around her.

Lady Haesel almost suppressed the shiver.

"I hope you do not mind my choice of venue," he continued, uncrossing his arms and placing his hands behind him on the desk. "This antechamber appeared private and yet—"

"Completely in the open to all passersby. It does not contain a door that could ruin my reputation." She arched an eyebrow at him in challenge.

He chuckled. "I hope I have not offended you, my lady." He bowed low to her, a courtesy he reserved for the royalty of the Lone Islands.

"No. Not yet." She smiled and stared at him with intense calculation. "You could not wait for a formal introduction?" There was a hint of mocking in her voice that both amused and irked him.

"I could," he responded, admiring how the light from the windows caught her dark hair and made it shine a deep, dark bronze. "But it seemed a tedious waste of an afternoon."

"And you deplore such tediousness."

She moved around him slowly, her eyes sweeping over his face. He did not need to answer. The truth was bare and unhesitating between them; his presence was answer enough. She sat at the desk behind him, and he didn't turn to face her at first, wanting her to catch the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles of his back beneath his wizard coat. He could feel her eyes upon him. It seemed he had at least a portion of her interest. Brilliant.

Still, the temptation was too great, and Marvolo turned smoothly, only to admire the myriad of emotions that shone from her eyes.

"As you shirk the boundaries, I'm surprised that you haven't introduced yourself," she said as she tucked the emotions where he could not see them.

"A third party would need to be present," he quipped in response, a genuine smile flashing across his lips for the barest of moments. Lady Haesel was utterly enchanting, and the scent of jasmine was intoxicating as it rose and fell with every breath she took. It had never been this heady before.

"There are dozens, are there not?" Her gaze flittered to the curtain that did nothing to muffle the sound of the other purebloods in the club.

He laughed quietly, not wishing to draw attention to their impromptu tête-à-tête. Still, it was unbridled and brought a sly smile to her face. She was more charming than any pureblood lady he had ever come across during his brief time in society before his appointment to the Lone Islands. She was more real, and less like a living doll—as so many pureblood witches resembled.

"My friends call me Marvolo," he answered as she continued to watch him.

Lady Haesel inclined her head to the side and narrowed her eyes, as if searching for his hidden agenda. "That is terribly intimate of you."

"You showed no hesitation in calling—Smith, was it?—by his given name." It took more restraint than he would ever admit to keep from frowning. He didn't like the thought of his future wife being on a first name basis with any wizards she wasn't related to by blood.

"I have known him since childhood," she countered. "It's commonly known that he's my closest friend." She showed no hesitation at the admission, although it was certainly _not the done thing_ when he had last left England.

Marvolo inhaled deeply, smelling the truth in her words. How intriguing. She was certainly unlike the pureblood ladies he had previously known.

"I am but a humble diplomat," he said, causing Lady Haesel to break out into quiet laughter.

"Humble? You? You are sly enough to be a diplomat, though perhaps a bit young."

"Looks can be deceiving." He glanced down to her tunic, not permitting his gaze to linger on her breasts or below the desk that lay between them. He grasped the wood with his right hand, leaning his weight onto it so as not to move forward.

The rumors and foresight had not done Lady Haesel justice. Her magic was almost torture in person, and he had been saturated in it for only a few minutes!

"Though magic never can be." The words were soft, simple, said almost as if to herself. Lady Haesel was looking away from him now, past his shoulder and to the grand staircase beyond.

"Would it be too intimate if I said that you are more beautiful than I could have imagined, even when dressed in what appears to be your brother's clothes, Lady Haesel?" The compliment fell from his lips like honey, and he meant it. More sentiment. And yet, in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Her eyes flickered toward him almost immediately before she looked down demurely, like a proper pureblood lady. There was a slight cast to her face that made him think it was all an act. "Thank you." She peered up at him. "But I daresay it's my height."

"I daresay it is not," he countered quickly, his mind turning to the tall, exotic Islanders. "Those more traveled might see it as a physical—though hardly magical—shortcoming."

Her eyes flashed in vexation. There, he knew it! The pureblood demureness was a façade; she had a fiery spirit. Thank Merlin. Completely submissive women were boring, bland, and certainly not appealing in the least. "You are well traveled, then, Diplomat?"

"Highly."

"I find it amusing that you seem to have attained such a lofty position in your field without us ever having been introduced. You must be trusted and highly skilled to be, as you say, so well travelled." Her words were biting, but she added a sweet, mocking smile to them. The magic about her, though, trilled in delight, showing her pleasure in their sparring of words. "I find, though, that I have taken an inordinate amount of time to powder my nose, especially as I have not brought powder with me on this outing—a fact which my brother knows well."

Marvolo bowed his head, recognizing that a lady of her caliber would only allow herself to skirt impropriety so far. He moved to the side to allow her a wide path out of the antechamber, and she smiled her thanks. His magic caressed hers; when hers hesitantly caressed back, he could barely suppress the shiver that ran up his arms.

Lady Haesel was perfect to be the mother of his heirs. Her magic sang to him and, judging by her coming to him when his magic had beckoned, his called to her as well. That aside, though, her beauty and unrelenting personality also greatly tempted him.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "As you are so illustrious a person, I take it I'll see you at my debut, Diplomat?"

The title was both mocking and fond, and Marvolo found he could not mind it as it fell from her lips, which were just begging for her maiden's kiss to be stolen from them. If only such a thing could be stolen. If Magic itself didn't ensure that a maiden's kiss was voluntary, he would have claimed her lips and hand right then. No one else would have ever been given the chance to win what was already his.

"I have no doubt."

She nodded her goodbye and, with the scent of jasmine floating about her, she was gone. Marvolo was left alone, and yet, the sea of strangers in front of his gaze proved just how public their first meeting had been.

The crowd parted for her and, despite himself, despite that it made him seem needy, Marvolo could not help but whisper, "Look back."

As if she had heard, her face turned so that he could see her profile as she descended the stairs, and then Lady Haesel was out of sight.

If Marvolo had been as young as he looked, he would have sworn that he had just fallen irrevocably in love.

* * *

**Note:** We apologize for being behind in review replies. A church conference, transferring universities, and a wedding have kept us occupied. We do promise to get to them all as soon as we can. We answer all of our reviews. :) In recompense, this chapter is a day early. We would love to hear what you think of their meeting! Like it? Hate it? Wish he'd accosted her? Let us know!


	5. Part the Fourth

**Part the Fourth**

Haesel's teacup leaned precariously in her grasp, but didn't spill yet. She paid the cup almost no attention and hadn't taken a sip since someone—she wasn't sure who—had handed it to her. The bottom of the porcelain cup was cradled against the flat of her palm, and her fingers were curled up around it like claws; it was how she held her teacups when in private, not public. She was in public, she knew that, but it couldn't quite seem to register.

The last few hours were a mere blur in her mind. She remembered walking into the Gallery with Henry and Zach; she recalled the grins on Heir Draco and Rana's faces when they had seen her. There had been painting, right? Or had they looked at paintings? She vaguely knew there had been a conversation about riding, or some such. There was a hazy memory about an invitation to late tea in the rose gardens, and then—burning sharp clarity.

The tea in her cup sloshed close to the rim, but didn't spill over, as a tremble wracked her form.

_That magic_. Lady Morgana, that prissy, handsome, arrogant diplomat's magic had _begged_ for her attention. It was heady, immense, and teased along her own like a lover's caress. It felt dangerous and utterly safe at the same time—a juxtaposition that was strangling her nerves.

How long had it been since she had felt magic like that? Magic so confident, resolute, dependable, and protective? Dumbledore's obviously, and the French Minister for Magic's didn't fall embarrassingly short, one of the young male Ravenclaws showed great potential (but that was still locked away until his majority), and Heir Zabini's cousin from somewhere in Africa—the leader of a magical tribe that practiced only the Olde Magicks. Dumbledore was too old, the Ravenclaw too young, the French Minister married, and Zabini's cousin . . . well, there hadn't been any type of physical attraction.

There had been two wizards from Durmstrang during the Triwizard Tournament, and one from Beauxbatons, too. It wasn't necessarily the strength of the diplomat's magic, but the qualities it displayed. Magic radiated emotions, and most of the people she met unwittingly broadcast their insecurities and weakness of character. Men who didn't know who they were, who didn't believe in themselves, rarely knew what they really wanted; she had no desire to be courted by a wishy-washy, indecisive child.

As someone who knew what and who she was, Haesel knew exactly what she wanted for herself: a loyal, loving, decisive, trustworthy wizard.

When she had left that antechamber, which she had only entered because of the gauzy curtains—she would not let anyone cast aspersions on her virtue—his magic had clung to her possessively. And, unable to help herself, she had let hers brush against his ever so slightly in return.

_What was I thinking? What in Morgana's name was I thinking?_ Haesel demanded of herself. She had blindly followed the scent of powerful magic alone. If it had been a trap, the men in her family would've been placed in danger, as they were forcibly Apparated to her side. There was a fine line between daring and foolishness, and she had just crossed it.

_I should have let Henry accompany me. I shouldn't have convinced him to let me go on my own_. She squeezed her eyes shut, nails pressing so firmly against the teacup that she feared for a moment they would break.

Then, after she had thought she escaped the reach of his intoxicating magic, she had felt it beckon her. It took more effort than it should have to keep from staring back at him. She had given him her profile, and that was it. Obeying his unspoken desires halfway was still too much.

Regardless of the magic itself, the wizard was nothing to discount. He was tall, powerfully built, and fair of face. It felt like he could properly protect her, both physically and magically, and that was a dangerous conclusion to reach. Finding favor with a complete stranger who could have been spinning lies—though his magic hadn't tasted of them—was the height of stupidity. Half-truths, after all, were honest enough to not taste of a lie.

Diplomat, huh? A liaison between departments in a Ministry of Magic could be called that, as could a liaison to a group of magical beings or creatures. She had five absolute truths about 'Marvolo'—only five. He was a pureblood, or else he wouldn't have been able to enter The Golden Fleece. He was wealthy, or else he wouldn't have been able to afford that exquisite Acromantula silk jacket. He was magically powerful and decisive; there was no doubt in this matter. He was attractive. And he was hazardous to her state of mind.

That haunting pull began again, her magic declaring that an available wizard with the qualities she had long been searching for was nearby. He was still in the club somewhere, and his magic was reaching out to her. It sang like a Siren, luring sailors to their deaths. The mesmerizing quality scared her, because for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure if what she wanted was healthy or not.

Finding exactly what you dreamed of could be as dangerous as never coming close to it.

Haesel kicked off her boots and curled her legs up on the sofa. She burrowed against her brother's side, allowing his magic to encase her protectively and hide her from the searching tendrils that longed for her attention. A muscular arm encircled her shoulders, pressing her more firmly against her safe haven.

"What's wrong, Haesel?"

Her head jerked upward, and her arm moved with her. Before the tea could spill and scald them, her brother removed the cup from her hand and set it on the table.

Henry grasped her chin and stared into her eyes. "What's wrong?" His magic stretched out even more and sealed around her, erasing any proof that she was present in the club from everyone who couldn't see her.

"Did something happen while you were powdering your nose?"

Haesel felt heat rushing to her cheeks as she realized exactly where she was—The Golden Fleece. She had known that, of course, but she had been so lost in what had happened in the brief encounter with Marvolo that the knowledge she wasn't at home with her brother had been smothered. Here she was, in front of two Heirs and an Heiress, snuggled against her brother, almost spilling her tea, and with her feet on the furniture.

If she hadn't been so unnerved by her reaction to Marvolo, she would've been horribly embarrassed.

"She was probably snorting the powder," Zach said with a smirk.

Haesel cast grateful eyes to him for offering such a ludicrous comment and giving her an opening to hide her sudden vulnerability. "Ladies don't snort," she said, one eyebrow cocked mockingly.

"But you don't deny doing drugs," Zach teased.

A quick glance from the corner of her eyes showed that Rana and Heir Draco were now staring at Zach in disbelief for accusing her of drug-use. Her odd behavior was forgotten for the moment. Thank Morgana. She really loved her best friend.

Haesel shook her head. "Zach. Zach. Zach." She smiled smugly, finally able to relax due to the silly banter and the protective feeling of her brother's magic. "I'm not the one addicted to—"

"Now, now," Henry interrupted, having caught the drift of the conversation: distraction. Her brother was brilliant like that. "Are you really going to deny the truth? The Perfect Pureblood Princess obviously wanted to snuggle with the Golden God. I can't blame the girl. Have you seen me?" He waggled his eyebrows comically—reminiscent of their Uncle Sirius.

"Well," said Rana, as she smoothed one hand over her ebony hair, "Master Henry certainly doesn't have self-esteem problems."

"Who would with Lady Haesel snuggled against them?" Draco muttered.

Haesel was sure he meant the comment to go unheard, but her hearing was very good. Her magic amplified all her senses, an increased self-defense system, as it were. Even dulled by her brother's magic, they were still strong enough to hear him at a distance of five feet.

"You're absolutely right," she said as she gazed up at her brother, letting her gratitude shine from her eyes. "Being without you for five minutes was horrible. We're so lovely together that I can't bear to deprive the peerage of such an incomparably beatific sight."

Rana tittered, Zach snickered, and Draco chuckled as he stared jealously at Henry. While they were all focused on her brother, she summoned her boots back onto her feet and returned them to the ground. None of them seemed to notice the change, much to her relief. Her unsteady hands, slight shivering, and stocking-clad feet were now forgotten.

If only Marvolo and his magic could be so easily erased from her mind. Her coming of age gala was only two weeks away, and temptation had just delivered itself unto her. Jerk.

"So," said Rana as she turned obsidian eyes on Haesel, "do tell. Who, exactly, is being honored with your first waltz?"

An intense urge to hex Rana overcame her; luckily for her sometimes friend, Haesel had long since trained her magic not to lash out at others every time she was upset. Rana was more often than not great company, but when the gossipy, nit-picking part of her personality surfaced, Haesel could barely stomach her presence.

It didn't help that Heir Draco had leaned forward in his seat and stilled utterly, as if someone had petrified him. The hope on his face was expected, but not particularly welcome. While he was by no means mediocre, he certainly didn't tempt her. He was too bigoted for her tastes, and too insecure. She didn't have the patience or desire to constantly puff up her husband's pride. She didn't want a little boy; she wanted a man.

"Not me," Henry said with a pout. He was always coming to her rescue when he could, helping her avoid situations she found awkward or uncomfortable. However, the moue of disapproval on Rana's face said she wouldn't let Henry save Haesel this time.

"You're fifteen. It can't be you," Rana said, not unkindly.

"Well, I don't want it," Zach said as he grabbed a biscuit off the silver tray on the table, before leaning back in the armchair. "I like being the positive center of attention. Whoever gets your first waltz is going to be hated by the majority of wizards alive. So don't pick me, Haesel, because I'll leave you standing alone on the dance floor in your revoltingly expensive dress robes."

"Gee, Zach, thanks for that," Haesel said dryly. There he went, treating her like a normal human being again. His friendship truly was priceless.

He nodded and bit into the biscuit. "You're welcome."

"You don't want her first waltz?" Draco and Rana asked in unison, both staring at him with unhidden shock.

Zach didn't even bother swallowing before saying, "Not in the least."

Draco looked at Zach as if he thought Zach should be locked up in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's—a place reserved for long-lasting damage and incurable diseases.

It seemed, though, that Rana was determined to get an answer to her original question, despite the wonderful tangents her brother and best friend had offered. "So who is it? He's surely been chosen by now. The gala is only two weeks away!"

"Well, they ruled out Flint, because he's recently engaged," Haesel said. Regardless that it was true, Rana would never believe that her partner hadn't been decided upon yet. If Haesel said as much, it would be considered a blatant lie. How aggravating! Leaving the manor hadn't saved her from the blasted topic, after all. She wanted to cry from frustration, but would never do so in public. Besides, tears wouldn't help one bit.

"And I removed McLaggen from the running. He'll never lay a hand on her," Henry said. His magic continued to blanket her and was helping her control the urge to invent a hasty excuse and rudely leave the impromptu tea party.

"Heir Neville, then?" Draco blurted, as if he were physically unable to restrain from participating in the conversation.

"Hmm, that would make sense," said Rana as she tapped a long, manicured nail against her lower lip. "He is her only godbrother that's of age. Cousins Leo and Aries are both fourteen, though they will be fifteen before the new school year. And Cousins Antares, Orion, and Cepheus are much too young."

A rumbling laugh echoed through the rose garden from behind her. Haesel twisted around quickly, annoyed that anyone would be able to sneak up on them. Her own magic couldn't sense as well when it was being sheltered; it was a small price to pay for the overwhelming feeling of safety, though. Thankfully, it was only Uncle Regulus.

"Indeed, I daresay my nephews and sons will not be graced with Haesel's first waltz," Regulus said as he sauntered over. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to each of Haesel's cheeks, gray eyes narrowing at how she was almost huddled against Henry's side.

"Uncle Regulus," Haesel said, unrepentantly not leaving her brother's one-armed hug.

"It seems you've lost track of time. Because it's after six o'clock, and this is most definitely not the Yggdrasil room. If I'd known I would need to hunt you down, I would've made our reservations for later," Regulus chided them.

Haesel almost leapt to her feet with excitement at being able to escape the terribly awkward conversation of which she wanted no part. Henry rose just as quickly, his arm falling from her shoulders to extend beside her; she placed hers atop it and smiled at their companions. "You'll have to excuse us. We have a prior engagement. Rana, until later. Heir Draco, we will happily take you up on the offer of riding your Abraxans sometime this week."

"Any time that works for you, Lady Haesel. Just drop by," Draco said with rushed dignity.

She nodded at him before turning toward her best friend. "Zach, I'll have you know that the commissioned dress robes are only disgustingly expensive, not revoltingly so." He snorted at her. "I'll see you quite soon, I expect. If you have any issues, my offer is eternally open-ended," she assured him, referring to her promise for asylum in the House of Potter.

Rana and Draco's gazes sharpened at that, but neither would be crass enough to ask for clarification. Leaving them even more curious was just a subtle punishment for harassing her about the blasted gala that loomed over her head.

"Come along now. Being fashionably late and inappropriately late are unbearably close. Let it never been said that a Black or Potter were inappropriately late." Regulus clapped his hands and turned, gesturing for them to follow as he stalked from the garden.

"What's wrong?" Henry asked, as soon as they were out of sight and reasonably alone. She had known he would react like this once others weren't around; he was always willing to cover for her, but he wanted to know why. It wasn't often that she hid inside others' magical signatures.

Haesel's hand curled around his wrist and gripped it tightly. "_His magic_ . . ."

Henry stopped abruptly and cupped her face between his hands. "Whose magic? What happened, Haesel?" There was a ferocious tone to his voice, as if he wanted to impale someone on the end of his favorite sword.

She snuck a single tendril of magic free from her brother's encompassing cloud and then yanked it back when she felt the diplomat's presence. He was still here. For that one moment, without protection, she had known exactly where he was—up in the chess room. She could easily picture him before the fireplace, shadows hiding his mocking eyes as he toyed with his opponent. It had been barely longer than an instant, but she had felt the pull; her feet had wanted to follow the shortest path that separated them and return to his side. She would not allow that. She wasn't weak. Her body and magic didn't rule her mind.

"Later. I swear I'll tell you later."

"All right," he finally agreed, displeased with the delay. "Just tell me you're okay."

The intoxicating strength of his magic came to mind, along with the smell of hemlock and ocean mist. A little of the former was a common ingredient in many potions, but too much was toxic, poison, _lethal_.

Haesel glanced up at her brother through her eyelashes and confessed, with a quivering lower lip, "I'm not sure I am."

Henry's face hardened, his jaw had been chiseled out of diamond. She had seen her Grandfather Charlus's face exactly like this once. Some brainless twit of a witch had whispered rather loudly at one of the Potter family Yule Balls that a real pureblood witch would have been able to give Lord Charlus Potter more than one child. Hadn't it taken precious Dorea Black over a decade and a half to get pregnant?

What the bint hadn't known, and no one outside the family did, was that an enemy of the family had poisoned Grandmother Dorea when she was carrying her first child. She had lost three children before successfully carrying James to term.

There was a reason, after all, why the House of Thorne had mysteriously been slaughtered, with no evidence left behind.

"We're leaving," Henry stated. It was a command, and she wasn't going to argue with it. It was his right as her brother to guarantee her safety however he saw fit.

Henry wrapped a protective arm around her waist and propelled her forward, guiding her rapidly through the rooms and hallways that kept them from the exit. They sped past everyone, ignoring all greetings offered. The glare on Henry's face had people leaping out of their way, allowing them passage. Tomorrow, there would likely be gossip in every drawing room about their speedy departure from The Golden Fleece. The speculation would likely revolve around someone attempting to harm or touch her, and Henry insisting she leave for her own safety.

Being at the center of such tales would normally irritate her but, right now, she didn't care. She had to get out before she did something mental, like stalk Marvolo the Diplomat's magical signature to try and uncover the personality traits he was broadcasting. Had she finally stumbled across a wizard worth her time?

Haesel was hustled into the Apparition Chamber, the yellow marble reminding her of the way the afternoon sunlight had made Marvolo's jacket shine like gold, instead of luminescent silver. _No, stop thinking of him!_

The smile on Regulus's face transformed into a worried frown. "What happened?" His wand slid into his hand and he stared over their shoulders, as if he expected someone to follow them threateningly.

"We're leaving," Henry snapped. "Now. Take us to the restaurant."

His gray eyes homed in on Henry, and then he nodded acquiescently. "Let me give Haesel the coordinates, and then—"

"No," said Henry. "Side-Along Apparate both of us. As soon as you can."

Regulus's gaze snapped to her questioningly, and then his eyes closed to slits. It seemed her uncle had finally realized that her brother's magic blocked hers from being detected. She would have to use her magic to encase her brother's to Side-Along Apparate them anywhere, and that was not going to happen. Even if she had made the offer, Henry would have forbidden it.

Regulus opened his mouth, but then closed it again without asking them the questions to which he definitely wanted answers. He knew, as well as they did, that as much as they loved him, he was a Black and they were Potters. Their tight-lipped silence was answer enough: this was a Potter family matter.

"Right. Let's go then. The reservations won't wait forever." Even though no one would dare give away the table of Regulus Black, Henry Potter, and Haesel Potter to anyone else. He clapped a firm hand on each of their shoulders, wand still pointed unerringly at the entryway to the chamber. "You'll love it. I've heard great reviews."

"Oh?" Haesel asked, trepidation and relief settling in. She really needed to put her head in order, and that wasn't going to happen as long as she was anywhere near Marvolo. "Where are we going?"

Smiling, Regulus focused his magic and said, "The Pied Piper."

* * *

It had been like a beckoning whisper, the first time he had smelled jasmine. Marvolo had been laying on his back, not bothering with covers despite the cold humidity of the Lone Islands, a tall, exotic beauty sleeping beside him.

Marvolo never slept beside his lovers, but with one such as her, a high lady of the court, he would not dream of insulting her by telling her to go before the sun had fully risen.

She had not been his first lover on the Islands, but she had been his last. Marvolo had not known it at the time, but that dratted smell of jasmine—so humble, so pure, so _human_—drifted in on the ice-cold wind.

Time was difficult to read in the Islands. It was so very different. But looking back _now_, as he expertly moved his chess pieces across the board, he supposed it would have been nearly six years ago—when Lady Haesel had only been eleven.

And the hint of her magic had called to him, so far away, beyond civilization, beyond wizardom, beyond the boundaries of humanity itself.

As if saying, _You are worthy. Why are you not waiting for me?_

Without consciously realizing it, Marvolo had done just what her magic had begged. That following morning was the last time he had touched his lover, and then it was only a fond trace of fingers in a traditional symbol of everlasting farewell, which no living wizard save himself knew.

At the time he could not comprehend why he acted so. She had not displeased him. He was not bored. It was not time to move on, as their love affair was young and ripe and exciting to the both of them.

Still, Marvolo unknowingly obeyed the scent of jasmine. When it came again, an earth year later (ten years on the Lone Islands), he had basked in its presence. He sat on his balcony, wondering at the Siren who was searching for him, succumbing to the sentiment, as he now called it.

Knowledge came with the magic this time. A single, quiet name whispered in his ear: _Lady Haesel Potter_. Then there was an impression of blue eyes, dark hair, calves covered in Hogwarts socks, a gold and red tie about a delicate throat, and the twist of a child's wrist.

He was intrigued. Lady Haesel was young, so young. Her magic was still being trained. It was powerful, intoxicating, had reached him perhaps the first time she picked up her wand and sparks had flown out of it. Now it was channeled, however unknowingly and inexpertly. Her magic was searching for a compatible partner in power and temperament. All magic did so in the years leading to adulthood. Searching, searching, searching.

Marvolo's had never found a match.

When he was appointed Ambassador to the Lone Islands, he had hidden his magic deep within himself and never let it roam back to humanity. He had given up the search, content with his power, his influence, and the utter strangeness of these Islands, which were his first true home.

Haesel. The name of a tree, gnarled with age and filled with unerring beauty and majesty.

The name became a prayer in his solitude as he continued to not take lovers to his bed. The Islanders were loyal to their lovers, free with their bodies before their final mating, and unearthly. Still, he only appreciated the ladies of the court with a detached eye, so much so that Queen Lucy had approached him before the third call of Haesel's magic came to him.

"Art thou fading?" she asked without preamble, stepping next to him onto a terrace that looked out on the waves that surrounded the island. "The humans fade when they have been here too long."

"What makes my queen believe that I fade?" he asked with a hint of curiosity, pulling his eyes from the waves and _wondering_ when the scent of jasmine would reach him next.

"Some ambassadors are like thee," she whispered. "They take ladies of the court to their beds and do so until they fade. Others hold fast to their morals from beyond." Her bright green eyes caught his gaze. "Thou hast not taken a lover to thy bed. Thou art young still, but perhaps thou art fading. Thou lookest out toward the Beyond with the quiet longing of those who wait for the journey to beyond this place, although for most of us it is our final rest."

Marvolo hesitated. "I am not fading, my queen."

"But thou art unwell?" Her eyes were large and pleading, her face that of a young girl of sixteen, as it had always been since he had arrived decades before. Sometimes Marvolo wondered just how long the kings and queens had lived, how long the Emperor himself had lived, or his son who was said to travel to the lands of men as a silent ambassador.

"I am well." He could not lie to her majesty. Still, the truth was too perplexing and uncertain for the words to yet pass his lips.

The magic came again upon the tide, and Marvolo realized that he only ever felt it on the waves coming from afar. It was stronger, more seductive, more channeled. The face of a child was growing into the visage of a woman, but it was still indistinct. _Where are you_? she seemed to ask him, her question full of command, a promise of a future. _Where can you possibly be_?

Where, indeed?

He found King Edmund sitting on a throne made of vines, playing chess with a centaur-like Islander.

"Ah, Lord Ambassador," he greeted heartily. "Thou hast been much in my thoughts this past tide."

Marvolo bowed low and the centaur gave up his seat at a flick of the king's wrist. "My wife believes thou dost fade, but thou art as young and handsome as ever. Tell us, Lord Ambassador, how hast thou achieved eternal youth here amongst us like an Islander, whilst none of thy predecessors have had the same fortune?"

"I do not fade, my king," Marvolo assured his companion as he took the vacant seat.

"Nay, but thou hast forsaken love like a man who fades—or perchance a man in love?"

Marvolo's lips twitched in annoyance.

"Ah, we see the truth of it in thy visage!" Edmund exclaimed happily, the spring sun glinting off of his silver crown. "Thou means to take a wife."

"The thought had crossed my mind two tides ago."

"When all this trouble began." King Edmund looked down at the game and moved his bishop. It was odd how this one trivial thing—a game of strategy—existed both in the world of men and the world of the Islanders, when little else was the same. "We have been told that the Islanders are free with our love, but we must counsel thee, Lord Ambassador, although thou art held in very high esteem, very few Island lords would allow one from the Beyond to marry one of their daughters."

King Edmund looked at him frankly, the darkness of his eyes glittering with justice, and Marvolo knew that he spoke the truth.

"But forgive me, my king, you and the High King and two queens were originally from our shores. I can see it in your eyes."

The king appeared startled for a moment, his broad shoulders slumping against the back of his chair, before a small smile of remembrance crossed his features. "Aye, we remember what it was to see. There are only shadows now. However, despite our esteemed position, we have not married the Islanders, although we are their monarchs."

True. It was undeniable.

"The lady in question is from beyond your shores," he confessed after several moves were made in silence. "She calls to me."

"And thou hast not gone to her side?"

"It will be a few more tides before it is time," Marvolo whispered, his mind suddenly made up on the matter. He would search her out, as she sought him.

King Edmund was silent for a moment. "Shalt thou return?" he asked when he finally won the match.

"Certainly," Marvolo assured, standing and leaving the king with a bow. Three tides, he guessed. He had three tides before he should sail and the third tide, he knew, would be strong enough for him to reach her side. A tide such as that would not come for another nine tides—and then it would be too late. Still, he could return on such a tide, leaving his heirs behind him to carry on the Slytherin name.

He did not, in that moment, think of Lady Haesel Potter. He did not consider the possibilities: that she might change his outlook, change him. Still, the mantra of _just three tides_ continued in his mind, torturing him sweetly.

Baby's breath came with the hint of jasmine on the next tide. Marvolo had been silent for days, walking down to the beach early every morning, hoping to catch a whiff of a scent he now associated with England—with his first home.

Perhaps the Islands could never be home, although his soul had been at peace here. He had climbed to the pinnacle of power in all of wizardom. Instead of growing restless, as he had supposed, he had found a quiet, inner strength he had not thought possible.

Lady Haesel's magic was undoubtedly maturing. He saw flashes of a dragon as she leapt up from her feet in surprise, and then an argument with a blond-haired young wizard who pulled her from a lake. She was composed, lady-like, but would not allow her rescuer to touch her, which pleased Marvolo greatly.

Everyone was unworthy of such a prize, and it was well that she knew it.

_It should have been you_, the magic whispered to him. _You are honorable_. _I do not feel safe when others look at me_.

And so, for the first time, he sent a tendril of his magic back with the outgoing tide, a message of comfort and promise in it. He knew that she would be too young to understand it, but perhaps it might bring her comfort to know that someone was out there, someone honorable enough for her, a lord to protect her, to give her children, to make love to her in the cool nights of summer.

The Islanders began to talk of his upcoming voyage.

"No one has ever left before," Queen Susan commented at a banquet just before the next tide. "They have all faded, and then we wait many tides before we receive another ambassador to our esteemed realm."

"I shall return," Marvolo assured her, bowing his head low, his hands outstretched, giving his word. "I go merely for a bride."

"One goes not merely for a bride," Queen Susan argued. "A bride is a man's life." Her eyes were an almost human blue, but by the way she was looking at him, Marvolo could tell that she had lost her sight to the Island ways many tides ago.

"Of course, your majesty," Marvolo agreed, though somehow he doubted it. He could hardly imagine a bride that would become his entire life—not after having lived alone for such a lengthy time. Lady Haesel was undeniably intriguing, but England was different than the Lone Islands, and not as clear in his memory as it had once been.

A week before the next tide, Marvolo spoke to no one and refused to leave the North beach on the island where he resided. He did not eat, he did not rest, and he would only occasionally move from his chosen spot of reflection. He walked in the shallow waters, wondering at the strange memories that had accompanied the jasmine scent the last time.

Then the awareness came, and Marvolo could not help but smile. He saw Lady Haesel dressed in the robes of those on the cusp of womanhood. Everyone stared and whispered as she passed, wherever she went. They recognized her power and beauty and wanted it for their own. He saw her riding an Abraxan through the clouds, a rare smile of joy on her face, and then there was an image of her in Quidditch robes as she caught a Snitch on a broom, performing an impressive Wronski Feint.

Her opponent had hair as white as snow and, though his form belied his competitiveness, a sense of longing shone out of his grey eyes as they looked at her in congratulations. Marvolo could sense Lady Haesel's politeness and discomfort, before the memory faded again.

_I am waiting_, her magic whispered to him. _You have only two more years before you have lost me._

The challenge was that of a woman, a witch who knew her worth, and Marvolo smiled to himself. He had not doubted it since the second tide, but now he knew for certain that Lady Haesel was worthy of carrying the name of Lady Slytherin.

The words he sent back were his promise to her—_I return before your seventeenth year, and will hold you in my arms for your maiden dance._

Marvolo knew she would not know him upon sight, but her magic should recognize him. It had been calling to him for years, after all.

His blind servants packed his trunk for him long before the sixth tide came, and Marvolo lived as a ghost in his chambers. There was nothing left but to wait for the next tide, and he took long walks alone many an evening, imprinting into his mind the landscape of the island that he knew he would return to one day.

"Thou dost not need to return," Queen Susan greeted him as he came upon her and her husband in a meadow filled with flowers the color of Island tears. "A bride is to be loved. This is no place for anyone but the Ambassador, and we shall understand if a replacement is sent and it is not thee."

The small speech startled Marvolo and he bowed his head in thanks, although he doubted that he would ever take the queen up on her offer. "I thank your majesty for her kind words of understanding."

"May your bride give thee as much pleasure as Queen Susan has given us," the High King offered in blessing from his position among the flowers. His crown of gold had been discarded somewhere, as well as his cloak, and it was the most informal Marvolo had ever seen him.

"My king," was Marvolo's only response.

He left the High King and his queen to their evening, wondering at the strange emotion the two shared, thinking it to be forever beyond his grasp. Marvolo was not like other men, other wizards. He had never loved (or been loved), never trusted. Still, he _wanted_ the Lady Haesel, and soon—soon, he promised himself—he would have her.

Perhaps, if she was all she seemed to be in the visions, she would teach him to love—sentiment, again.

A smile came to him on the next tide, as well as a brief wave of terror involving the young blond from the lake, and other people he had occasionally glimpsed. But by then he was sitting in a small boat with his trunk beside him, and he knew it would take too long to send his magic again. He did not look back at the Lone Islands, although he knew the cliffs above him were filled with those who wished him well.

He would return, he knew.

And even now, nearly a year later, as he sat in The Golden Fleece, playing chess with some lord or other as he had once done with King Edmund, he thought it to be true. Although, after meeting Lady Haesel in person, his heart whispered to him that it might be otherwise.

* * *

**Note:** I was unable to answer a few reviews because they were anonymous or PMs were denied. So I would just like to thank you few for your brilliant words. I grinned through each review. The "Lone Islands" are finally explained! Thoughts on that? Also, I _really_ want to know what you all thought of Haesel's introspection.


	6. Part the Fifth

**Part the Fifth**

Haesel relaxed when they reappeared in a darkened room. It was a wide foyer with several Apparition runic circles carved into the ebony floor. The floorboards gleamed, as if they had just been waxed and polished moments ago; that was a sign of industrious house-elves, something she appreciated.

"Will you be all right now?" Henry whispered.

"Yes, thank you," replied Haesel, allowing her brother to withdraw his magic. The freedom of her advanced senses sent a rush to her head, making her dizzy for a moment. She wasn't going to complain about it, though, because it was well worth the sensory deprivation. She felt Henry's magic hovering close by, ready to consume hers again if she showed the slightest sign of needing his protection.

"Can I help with anything?" Regulus asked solicitously.

Haesel shook her head. "Thank you, Uncle, but I'm well enough now."

Thank Morgana, the distance helped. She couldn't feel him anymore, couldn't smell him, couldn't taste him. The silent pleading for her attention had vanished when they did. For the moment, at least, she felt free of its beguiling ways. And now that she wasn't in his immediate proximity, she realized precisely how intense the urge to find him again was. It almost felt like she had broken free of an Imperius Curse that her own magic had placed on her, which made absolutely no sense.

Why did she feel so drawn to a wizard she had never heard of before today, let alone met? It was as if he was a sandy beach and she the tide, both destined to crash into each other for all time.

Still, there was a nagging thought in the back of her head that said he was entirely too familiar. As if he knew her better than anyone else alive did. How could that be?

"This coming of age thing is messing with my head," she sighed. Why else would such silly and childish thoughts be demanding her attention? She had better control of her magic than this; she knew she did. Yet, it reacted like an unruly child in Marvolo's presence, begging him to notice her. She might as well just wave her arms and scream, "Pick me! Pick me!" at the top of her lungs.

It was almost as if her magic feared she would never find another wizard who possessed all of the personality traits she desired in her spouse. But that was ludicrous!

"Did someone hurt you with his magic?" inquired Henry, bent over so that no one else would be able to hear him.

"No. It's not that." She wanted to twine one of her curls around her index finger, but her hair was still up in a crown of plaits, and she certainly would not unravel them in public. "It's—I'll explain later. I promise. A proper explanation would take too long right now."

"Very well," Henry agreed, though he kept his arm about her waist.

"Are we ready, then?" Regulus asked as he stood a polite couple of steps away, allowing them their privacy to speak.

"Yes, of course. I apologize for the delay, Uncle. Dinner sounds fabulous," Haesel said. "Now, tell me all about the restaurant that was brilliant enough to catch your illustrious attention." So far, she could understand the appeal. It was definitely upper-class, but wasn't overly gaudy or shiny—two things she disliked in the extreme.

"Well, it's a newly opened place in Muggle London. Of course, it only serves purebloods."

"Of course," Henry agreed solemnly, lips twitching with amusement as they walked toward a massive desk at the front of the foyer.

"It's near King's Cross. Wouldn't do to have it somewhere us purebloods have never heard of, now would it?" He continued speaking without allowing them a chance to answer. "It's across from a Starbucks—coffee shop, I think; I heard their tea was wretched, though—and something called a McDonald's. No idea who the chap is, but I heard his hair puts a Weasley's to shame."

That was hard to imagine. The Weasley hair was very . . . well, distinctive was a polite way of phrasing it.

"I had planned to take us to King's Cross, and then stroll over. Let us have a spot of Muggle-watching; they are such odd, little people. However, with the rush and being late, and, well, Apparating seemed like the best idea."

"I couldn't agree more," Haesel said.

She was quite grateful that Uncle Regulus had brought them straight to the restaurant. She had been in Muggle London more than once, and it was almost unbearably crowded. People brushed up against each other in the street all the time! One man had rubbed his side against hers in an obscene manner, and she had never returned to Muggle London since. At least people in wizardom, wizards especially, knew better than to casually touch a woman on the street—particularly when they weren't even related! She had needed to take three baths before she felt clean again. Dealing with something like that tonight would have pushed her over the edge.

Her magic likely would have violently thrown the Muggles away from her. After the way Marvolo's magic had felt against her own (firm and trustworthy), their blankness—lack of magic—would have felt downright filthy.

"We appreciate the thought, but that wouldn't have been the best idea tonight," Henry said. He pulled her a little closer to his side as they finally reached the immense desk. It was as tall as Haesel herself, but the man standing behind it was even taller. He had to be at least seven feet tall, and was painfully thin.

"Good evening Lady Haesel, Master Black, Master Potter. Your table is ready." As if they had any doubt on that matter. "If you will follow me, please." He stepped out from behind the desk, satin black robes swirling around him, and Haesel wondered if he might possibly be a vampire. If so, he was ancient. Humans rarely grew that tall these days. Then again, he could also be part High Elf or Fae. Not that it mattered, of course.

There was a threshold, and then the wood flooring became stone of some kind. She wasn't sure if it was onyx, obsidian, or another type that had been charmed to look like either of those. She wasn't a great lover of gems, and thus hadn't spent as much time memorizing each individual type in existence, as most pureblood women did. She knew the most common ones, but hadn't bothered to learn the esoteric jewels, stones, and such.

She and Henry had constantly snuck away from their tutors to play Quidditch, visit the kitchens for a snack, or craft a grand prank to play on their cousins. To her father's great joy, and Uncle Sirius's immense annoyance, she and Henry were still leading on the prank scoreboard over all their cousins.

They entered a cavernous room that gave the illusion of being intimate. She was sure the ingenious use of lighting and shadows were the cause. Crystal sculptures levitated in the air, one over each table. The insides were a misty pewter, as if someone had failed to properly summon a Corporeal Patronus. The glowing, silver fog illuminated the room in patches. They were being led to a table in the exact center of the room. No surprise there. The sculpture over it was a gryphon rampant, much to her private amusement. Perhaps the majority were based on pureblood crests?

An eerie, haunting flute melody resounded through the room, echoing off the ceiling and making itself sound even darker. She shook her head when she realized she was focusing on it too closely. She had already allowed Marvolo to mesmerize her today, she would not grant this magical flute music the same power over her. Losing control again would be unacceptable.

"Princess," Henry said teasingly as he pulled out her chair.

"Thank you, kind sir," she said as she sat and let him scoot her closer to the table. The silver was set for twelve courses; she could only pray Uncle Regulus didn't want to stay for that many. She had sought an adventure that morning, and she had gotten more than she planned for.

Now all she wanted was to lie on her bed and try to sort out the feelings Marvolo roused within her.

"You're welcome."

Once they were all seated, the maître d' indicated tunnel-like holes in the side of the round table. "All you need to do is insert your wand and request whatever you desire. It will be served instantaneously." He bowed to them. "Please enjoy your meal, my lady, masters."

Haesel flicked her wand—holly and phoenix feather—into her hand, and then slid it inside the hole closest to her. She knew her brother and uncle would wait until she had ordered, so that they were not all defenseless at the same time. "Mermaid tears soup," she stated clearly. She returned her wand to its holster just as a bowl appeared before her. After retrieving the correct spoon, she tried it; it was scrumptious. "Uncle Regulus," Haesel declared after swallowing, "I daresay you can count this outing as a success."

Regulus chuckled. "When have I ever taken you somewhere that served bad food?"

"Does that time you decided to try your hand at cooking count?" she teased mercilessly as Henry ordered grilled truffles. He was bloody well addicted to the things. Haesel couldn't stand them.

Regulus huffed, affronted. "And how long do you plan to hold that over my head, Haesel?"

"Forever, of course," she replied cheekily. "That's why they call it Black-mail."

Groaning, Regulus hung his head. "Someone has been spending too much time with my brother."

"Aww, don't worry. You're still my favorite uncle in this restaurant," Haesel assured him with a wide smile. She adored teasing Uncle Regulus and Uncle Sirius. The two men were constantly competing to determine which of them was the best uncle ever. She wasn't ashamed to admit that she and Henry had taken shameless advantage of that on occasion. However, the countless gifts and outings had nothing to do with her love for each man. If they had been poor and never taken her on holiday, she still would have cherished them.

"I'm your only uncle in the restaurant," Regulus sighed before promptly ordering some French dish that looked entirely too fussy in her opinion.

There were several minutes of silence as they focused on eating instead of talking. The croissants were delicious, the braised lamb delectable, and the Treacle Tarts were divine. She ate more of them than she should have, but she refused to feel guilty about it. A few tarts were not going to ruin the fit of her disgustingly expensive dress robes. Besides, standing still for hours as the designer redid them would not have been worth it. She wasn't going to suffer through that again for anything!

"So," Regulus started once they had cups of tea, "how are you handling the pressure?"

Before this afternoon, she would have told him it wasn't a problem. Now, though . . . "Not too badly." That was a safe answer. Safe was good right now. Too much was changing all at once, and she didn't like it.

"Cousin Dorea and your mum just want the best for you. I know that doesn't excuse all the fighting, but it's the truth. Dorea never had a daughter, so this is the first time she's been able to plan a coming of age gala; try to cut her a little slack, please."

Haesel almost winced at the reminder that her father should have had two older sisters and an older brother. During the past few months, with all the mayhem, she had never once thought that might be why Grandmother Dorea kept pushing and proffering ideas. It made complete sense. What pureblood witch didn't dream of the perfect debut for her own daughter? Morgana knew Haesel had done so more than once. And with Haesel being who she was, the pressure on her mother and grandmother must be horrific; her coming of age gala was to be the most prestigious event of the season—perhaps the century. It wouldn't do for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter to fail at such a task.

"I know," she whispered, pangs in her chest. "I just don't like seeing them at odds with each other. I hate it when the family fights."

"If it lasts much longer, I reckon Charlus or James will set it to rights. They can't enjoy the bickering between their wives either. Discord in a usually harmonious household jangles the nerves. It might even start wreaking havoc with the family magics." He spoke the last words as if from experience. Which, knowing several members of the Black family as she did, was a definite possibility.

"That would be brilliant," Henry interjected, before sipping his tea. His gaze had rarely left Haesel the whole time they had been eating dinner. He was still watchful, and she truly appreciated it. She had managed to push most thoughts of Marvolo from her mind during dinner, but they were steadily resurfacing now that her stomach was satisfied.

Then, like reliving déjà vu, she felt the barest hint of magic. Impossibly, it felt identical to the warmest, safest feeling she could remember—a magical hug, of sorts, that came to her when she was fifteen.

The previous year (at fourteen) she had been, much to her mortification and annoyance, Mr. Cedric Diggory's hostage in the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Cedric had attempted to hug her after removing her from the Black Lake to 'warm her up'. Even at that age, she had known not to let men hold her closely. Something about that particular request had been painfully jarring. She had been repulsed by his offer, and then her magic had reached for something that she could never quite touch or understand. Something just out of reach, as if it were part of a dream.

Cedric had relentlessly pursued her following that cold February morning, seeming to think his status as winner of the Triwizard Tournament meant he was worthy of her, and that she should accept his very premature offer of courtship. He had sent several gifts, and was seen threatening more than one wizard to stay away from her.

It had all come to a head shortly after her fifteenth birthday. She had been shopping with her family in Diagon Alley when a rough hand suddenly grabbed hold of her and dragged her into Knockturn Alley, another hand quickly closing over her mouth. "Marry me," Cedric had purred in her ear, as if he were doing her a favor by suggesting it.

Her magic had blasted him backward into the front window of a shop, shards of glass piercing his flesh. She had stumbled back wildly, colliding with her father, and then breathed a sigh of relief when he hastily returned her to Potter Manor so she would be within the safety of the family wards—where the family magics were strongest.

But that night, as she huddled beneath her bedding, the tiniest hint of magic had met her own. She had felt comforted, protected, cared for, safe, and whatever nightmares might have been in her future for the evening were banished. She had not slept that well since entering Hogwarts, and had never had so peaceful a night since.

The memory niggled at her, but she wasn't quite sure why. Why now? Why that memory?

The answer came rapidly. That hint of magic she had been blessed by years ago, it was coming toward her again—in massive quantities. This time it wouldn't be a raindrop; it was a tidal wave. Whatever the change was, likely distance, she felt it most keenly. It felt warm and safe and loyal and it tasted of—Haesel swallowed roughly and leapt to her feet, sending her chair skidding backward. Impossible!

Footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the silence that followed the sound of her chair crashing against the stone flooring.

"Haesel, what's wrong?" Henry demanded. He shoved his chair away from the table with alacrity and rushed to her side, Uncle Regulus right behind him.

How had she not realized it earlier?

Slowly, torturously slowly, she turned to face the entrance to the dining room. Lord Nott—irrelevant. Lord Avery—immaterial. Lord Yaxley—inconsequential.

And Marvolo.

Marvolo.

_Marvolo_.

His dark eyes snapped to her face the second he passed the threshold. They flared with acknowledgement, as if he had just read her mind and agreed with the conclusion it had reached. The improbable, impossible conclusion.

"Haesel, tell me what's wrong this instant!" Henry demanded, his wand in one hand and his eyes darting around the room. "What upset you?"

"We have to leave," she gasped. "Now. Right now, Henry." She felt faint. Why must she realize this now, in public? For once, why couldn't she make such a personal connection in private, where she would be free to freak out without anyone the wiser?

He was . . . he was . . .

"Okay. Okay. Let's go." Henry forwent propriety once again and slung an arm around her waist, using his magic to cover hers as well as he could with how far hers was spread out. "Thank you for dinner, Uncle Regulus. Sorry to run."

"Go," Regulus insisted, face taut with worry as he watched Haesel. "Now."

Then she and Henry were practically sprinting through the room. Her plaits almost came loose, her tunic fluttered a little higher than she was comfortable with, but nothing could have gotten her to stop and smooth it back down. Her body rejoiced with each step she took toward Marvolo, and she knew that if she didn't escape his reach within the next minute, she wouldn't want to. She would desire nothing more than to wallow in his hemlock-scented magic.

The Lords he was accompanying (he must be _some_ diplomat) hastily stepped aside so she and Henry would have unfettered access to the exit. Their visages were masks of concern as they observed her and her brother. She could only imagine how pale and frightened she must look. Surely Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—the Gryffindor ghost—currently had more color than she did.

Right when she pulled level with Marvolo, their eyes met, and time seemed to halt completely, as if it moved at a different rate than time outside their magical bubble did. For an irrational moment she thought she would rise on her tiptoes and press her lips against his, gifting him with her maiden's kiss. It would seal her fate as his betrothed. It would destroy all need for a coming of age gala. It would break her mother and grandmother's heart, and enrage her father at this point. Two weeks before the much-advertised event was not an appropriate time to find someone worthy.

And yet . . . _and yet_ . . . somehow, someway, Haesel thought she just might have.

Marvolo's lips curled in a devious and delighted smile. They caressed a single word, but she wasn't able to catch what it was because—the breath whooshed from her lungs as Henry hauled her into the foyer of the restaurant.

Henry's hands cupped her cheeks, grip rough as he tried to get her to focus on him. "Haesel, Apparate us back to Potter Manor immediately."

Obeying him was a gruesome prospect, but she did as he asked of her. Her mind cried its denial as she spun on her heel and yanked them through space. They landed in the manor, not far from the informal dining room.

The clinking of glasses ceased, and then her father was standing in the doorway. "Haesel, darling, you're back! They've finally reached an agreement. Your first waltz . . ." James's voice fell silent, and she couldn't imagine what she must look like for her father to get that sharpened edge to his jaw.

"Just give it to Uncle Valerius!" Haesel cried, wincing at the hysterical edge to her voice. She ripped herself away from her brother and raced down the hallway and up the stairs, ignoring all the voices that called after her. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't—this couldn't be real!

She opened her bedroom door and then slammed it behind her, activating the wards that would keep everyone—even the Lord of the House himself—from intruding on her privacy. Pausing only to kick off her boots, Haesel threw herself on her bed and then promptly burst into tears.

It was his fault. All these years, it was Marvolo's fault.

He had given her one sliver of magic on that day, and she had _known_ that nothing could harm her. Since she had woken up the next day, she had never felt truly safe again—until today. All those months of hidden, unspoken terror swamped her all at once. By making her feel utterly safe, he had destroyed her illusion of true safety.

Oh, the hemlock undoubtedly suited him.

Haesel punched her mattress and wept bitterly. "Why, Marvolo? _Why?_"

She didn't receive an answer before she cried herself to sleep.

* * *

At first, Marvolo was uncertain why he had awakened in the night. The moon's light shone through the open window, the hot summer air flowing around him with the subtle hint of jasmine and baby's breath.

"Darling," he whispered, the word that had somehow, strangely, unknowingly appeared on his lips as Lady Haesel had run past him, her brother directly behind her, pushing her away, away, _away from him._ But not for long. Marvolo had seen the pure lust in her eyes. The knowing flavor of her magic that recognized him not just because of instinct, but because Lady Haesel herself had realized . . .

The endearment felt odd as his lips shaped it, as he had never spoken it before. "Darling." The word was soft, a prayer, and Marvolo could not care how pathetic he might sound in the night. Her magic drifted toward him, hesitant, though with a purpose. Calling, begging as it had done for years. She felt weak, frightened, so unlike herself.

With a deep breath, he released his own magic. After the incident two evenings before he had kept it wrapped around himself like a cloak, for fear of further distressing her. He had been startled when her magic had first called to him, a wizard in his seventies. She was a maiden that had not yet reached majority. He knew, compared to all the wizards around his future bride, his magic would be surprising, wonderful, protective, and overpowering.

He could not blame her for wishing to be alone, to process. If he had known she would be there—no, he still would have gone. The desire pulsing in his veins would allow nothing less. He had to be near her, had to smell her, had to taste her lips.

She had been so close, so close to him as she ran from him. For a moment, Marvolo had foolishly thought that she would grant him her maiden's kiss, that this charade would be over. He adored games and yet . . . and yet . . . he simply wanted to hold her in his arms, feel her magic welcoming him knowingly as her body did the same. He wanted to proclaim her as his wife and never leave her side, so that he could simply remain within her intoxicating scent.

_Marvolo,_ the jasmine scent whispered, and it was almost as if fingers hesitantly ran down his cheek. _I have not felt safe since your magic last visited me_. It was a simple statement; yet, he understood the question, the vulnerability behind the message that she was sending to him. As his magic tangled with hers, he could almost hear a sigh of contentment. _Please. I wish to sleep._

And Marvolo found that he could not deny his darling Haesel anything she deemed to request of him.

"Sleep," he spoke aloud, knowing that his magic would carry the message to her. "Know that I will keep you safe and content. I will never allow another to harm you." The vow was barely a whisper, and yet he could feel it settle into his bones. Perhaps, Marvolo mused, if he had been fully awake he would not act so foolishly, and yet—Haesel had asked it of him. She had sought his comfort, and he would not and could not refuse her.

As he drifted off to sleep, the scent of jasmine all around him, he felt a hesitant kiss upon his brow, and found that he wished that it were real.

The following evening he sat on the terrace, a glass of champagne in his hand. A bowl of strawberries remained untouched beside him.

The sun had set almost an hour previously, and Marvolo could not stop his mind from wandering to Lady Haesel. He wondered what she was doing, if she was looking out at the same stars that he was. It was less than a fortnight before her coming of age gala and, as he knew it would, an invitation had arrived the day before, beautifully embossed and of the highest quality.

A brief note had accompanied it from his old school fellow. He had not quite expected it, but it was certainly proper form considering Marvolo's position in society and his expressed interest in the lady.

_Dear Lord Slytherin_,

_My granddaughter dances her maiden dance with Master Valerius Vaisey, her uncle, upon her request. If I receive your proposal for courtship before the evening concludes, my son and daughter-in-law would be honored to grant you her first marriage date._

_Regards_,

_Charlus, Lord Potter._

Marvolo, naturally, already had the request written out and his first of many gifts to Lady Haesel lay on his bedside table. He found (ever since the previous evening) he could not bear to have it shut in a drawer, needing some reminder of her at all times.

He felt like a lovesick fool. Sentiment again.

When he finally went indoors, he looked at the clock and saw that it was nearing midnight. Without a second thought, he sent his magic outward, knowing that it would seek and find her. He hoped that it would wrap around her as she slept, for he could not yet hold her in his arms. Even with the inevitable distance, he wanted to remind her that he was here, and he wasn't going anywhere.

No one would take her from him. He wouldn't give them a chance. He hadn't waited decades in the Lone Islands, just for a hint of her life, to lose her to a snobby schoolboy who could never appreciate a woman like her. Not when he already loved—not when he _yearned_ for her.

"Pleasant dreams," he murmured, his hands going out to stroke the box that lay beside his bed. "Know that I will dream of you as I have since your magic first came to me."

Carefully, he opened the box to see the hand crafted stylus within. It was an unusual courtship gift, he knew, but one eminently suitable. It was made from the bone of a unicorn that had given its life to protect a child, and it was engraved with entwining jasmine and hemlock blossoms, symbolizing their union. He imagined her sitting down at a writing desk and responding to her correspondence, the stylus between her elegant fingers, her head turned so that he could place a kiss on her bare neck before she went about her work.

He dreamt of her that night. She was covered in a hazy pink mist of flowery perfume, beckoning him forward, and always just too far away for him to grasp.

He woke up gasping and reaching for someone beside him who wasn't there. His bed was as empty as it had been for the past seven tides. He vowed then and there that he would awake to her sleepy gaze, swollen lips, and mussed hair within one year's time. Solitude, it seemed, had lost its appeal. Haesel was the only cure he desired.

For some reason Marvolo felt drawn away from his home, and, inexplicably, toward Malfoy Manor. He visited again in the afternoon. He presented his card to the house-elf, but then, instead of trailing after the creature to the study as originally instructed, followed the scent of flowers and raindrops out to the stables.

Off under the trees, Marvolo could see the Potter boy—Master Henry Potter, he reminded himself—playing swords with a young girl. She was just barely of Hogwarts age, and had Lady Malfoy's golden hair and the typical blue Malfoy eyes.

Another young witch, closer in age to Lady Haesel, sat under a tree, reading a book. She was looking at the Potter boy with envy and ill-concealed longing, while pretending an outward calm she clearly did not feel.

And then there were the stables, where three glorious Abraxans were saddled; the Malfoy boy and a girl Marvolo took to be his cousin Lady Rana (the same witch from the hallway in The Golden Fleece) were already seated. Lady Haesel, though, was missing from the scene. However, he could sense her nearby, teasing, teasing, always teasing him and making him want more.

"Haesel, really!" Rana called, arching behind her to look into the stables. "It's high time—"

"Rana," Draco hissed, "let her find her riding crop."

Rana huffed at him. "She's taking far too long. You may be smitten with her, Cousin, but really, enough is enough."

"You should show more loyalty to your friends," Draco warned. Neither of his sisters or Master Potter seemed to hear him, but Marvolo, with his heightened senses, caught every word he uttered.

Rana flicked her long, smooth, black hair. "I am a Slytherin. As are you, Cousin."

"Then show some cunning," Draco responded.

Marvolo was still a fair bit away, but he unfurled his magic, searching out the presence of Lady Haesel, asking her to come forth, to reveal herself, to not leave him standing alone in the copse of trees where he could view and hear everything with such ease.

A rustle of hay and a bang signified that something had occurred within the stables, and one of the Abraxans pawed at the ground impatiently.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Lady Haesel called. She emerged, her hair swept up into an elegant chignon, her body encased in dark blue, fashionable riding attire that couldn't help but highlight the beautiful icy color of her eyes. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Rana, Heir Draco."

"Not at all, Haesel," Rana answered, a false smile upon her face. "Did you find it?"

"Nearly," she responded, her eyes trained on the copse of trees, a clear command in them.

Marvolo was never one to answer such commands, but for her—for Lady Haesel—he found himself doing almost anything she desired.

He strode through the trees, purposefully stepping on twigs to make his presence known. Heir Malfoy and Lady Rana immediately turned toward him; at the widening in the Malfoy boy's eyes, it was clear that he recognized Marvolo by description—most likely from his mother.

"M-my lord," he greeted, immediately sliding off his horse to execute a low bow. Marvolo did not give him permission to rise, but instead ignored him. His eyes were focused solely on Lady Haesel.

"Diplomat," she greeted, "to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?" Her tone was light, airy, nearly uncaring, and yet he could feel her magic, the happiness and slight wariness in it, the longing, the desperation to be closer. She needed him, and yet something—propriety, of course—was keeping her from addressing him more intimately, or coming closer to him. The struggle his physical presence presented, however, could easily be read in the tilt of her eyebrow and the slight shallowness in her breath.

"My lord," Draco began again, looking up at Lady Haesel in a somewhat scandalized manner, "please forgive—"

"I do not require formality from my lady," he said coldly, cutting off the whelp. "She has permission to address me however she desires—even by my given name."

An intake of breath from Lady Rana showed that she understood the situation, even though her reaction had not been so great as her cousin's. However, that was possibly because she was sitting sidesaddle and could not remove herself from her mount without assistance.

"I also do not require you to speak, Heir Malfoy," Marvolo added, just for the small smile that appeared on Lady Haesel's beautiful face.

"You did not answer my question," she stated. She peered briefly at Draco who was rising slowly from his bow, his lips pressed in a firm line.

"You called," Marvolo answered, mocking the first words she had ever spoken to him.

"Did I? How remiss of me. As you can see, I am engaged this afternoon with friends." Her tone was light, pleasing, and her eyes sparkled. He wanted to kiss her. She swallowed.

"Yes, well, it was several years ago, Lady Haesel. Just after you were pulled from a body of water, I believe."

Her eyes flashed in momentary confusion and memory. She turned toward where her brother was still playing swords with the young Lady Iolanthe, Marvolo supposed; both of them were quite engrossed in their game and just in shouting range. Lady Lacerta, the older of the two, was looking at him with wide eyes over the brim of her book.

Lady Haesel cleared her throat and shifted, as if the topic made her uncomfortable. "You must be referring to the Triwizard Tournament."

Ah, yes, Marvolo had read something about it in the months since he returned to England. "You were a hostage then, my lady?" He knew she had been, but he was hoping for the particulars. Who, exactly, was the idiotic blond who had pulled her from the lake, and later frightened her so badly? He would love to pay the whelp a personal visit and explain, in painful detail, why it wasn't wise to touch his future bride.

Lady Haesel allowed the slightly intimate form of address to pass yet again and simply nodded her head. "To the Hogwarts Champion, Mr. Cedric Diggory." She shivered with discontent and her magic felt repulsed. She had not been a willing hostage and, given the clippings he saw from that year, she had also not been Diggory's date to the Yule Ball.

_Mr. _Cedric Diggory was a pureblood, then, but one not in direct line for any seat of power. A nobody, and certainly not a rival. That didn't mean Marvolo couldn't maim him, of course, but those were thoughts for later.

"I'm sorry you went through such trials," he murmured, stepping closer to her.

She lowered her eyes, before meeting his gaze again fearlessly. "Your magic came—"

"You had been calling to me—"

"But how?"

"Like recognizes like even when thousands of miles stand in between," he murmured, now close enough so that he could stroke the neck of her mount.

"I was fourteen!" she protested, loud enough so that Lady Rana heard and looked over at them. She was forbidden to speak to Marvolo, as they had not been introduced, and Draco had been forbidden to speak.

"Eleven," he countered, a smile on his lips at the memory of the first tide, "or just twelve when you first called."

She breathed in, shocked, and yet her ice-blue eyes never left his dark gaze. Lady Haesel appeared to be searching for truth in his visage and he unfurled his magic even further so that she could read him better.

"I would never wish to make you uncomfortable," he murmured, "like I did the day we met. That has never been my intention."

"No," she replied breathlessly, turning her back to him and laying a hand on the flank of the Abraxan before her. "Of course not. I—realize that now." She paused. "Your hair, Diplomat, is not black like I had originally thought."

Their eyes met at the intimate tone the conversation had taken. However, the sound of a throat clearing nearby made Lady Haesel glance at her two riding companions.

"Your assistance, Diplomat, would be much appreciated," she said in a louder tone, and he couldn't help but smile at her ruse to end the conversation, which brought them closer. He stepped toward her and rejoiced as her magic washed over him, enjoying their proximity. She had only ever been this close to him in his dreams and fantasies. Now they would have more fodder.

"Your hair is as dark as any Potter's," he remarked, his lips nearly brushing her ebony curls.

Marvolo gently placed his hands around her waist and lifted her into her seat before she could reply. Someday his hands would be on her waist, with nothing blocking him from tracing her velvety skin. It was too far away. He could feel her hold in her breath, and then heard her slowly release it again as she settled herself, her riding crop in one hand and her reins held confidently in the other.

"Until next time, my lady," he said as he backed away, a smirk of satisfaction painted across his lips. She had liked his hands on her as much as he had.

"Yes," she said simply, turning to him as his magic gently stroked a lock of hair that fell behind her ear. "Let's go!"

Then the three riders were off, taking to the sky, and Marvolo was left on the ground, watching as Lady Haesel flew away from him. Why did she always seem to be leaving him? He hated it. Even she must know that she belonged at his side as much as he belonged at hers. He had come to her after all, from the Lone Islands and from the trees surrounding the stables.

Her magic drifted down from the heavens, as if a gift from an angel. On it, he could hear her words to her companions: "Not a word."

Marvolo couldn't help but laugh at her command.

* * *

**Note:** We hate being sick! And we hope you like the chapter. :) We'd like to hear what worked, and what didn't.


	7. Part the Sixth

**Part the Sixth**

Haesel stood before the mirror in her nightgown, its white lace and close cut flattering her figure. Her small, slender hands were pressed against her waist, twisted around at an awkward angle. "Like this," she whispered, remembering how Marvolo's hands had been positioned on her body when he lifted her onto the back of the Abraxan at Malfoy Manor. For an irrational moment, she had hoped he wouldn't release her.

After her bottom had met the saddle, she had insanely wished that he would swing himself up behind her and pull her back against his chest. She could imagine how daring, yet safe, she would feel plastered against him, his muscled forearm beneath her breasts and across her stomach. They would fly off into the sky alone and revel in each other's presence.

"So warm," she murmured, hands pressing more firmly against her ribs. It felt different, because his magic wasn't present, and his hands were at least twice as large as her own, but it still felt intrinsically right.

That first night after her discovery of their past connection had been awful. She had barely slept, and what little sleep she had gained was riddled with nightmares of Mr. Cedric Diggory. She had refused to leave her room, regardless of her family's demands and requests.

Her nerves were jittery all the next day, growing worse as evening approached. The fragile skin under her eyes had grown dark and bruised. The food her house-elf Manah brought lay untouched on the floor and various tables. She lay in her bed the second night, blankly staring at the ceiling, scared senseless of what she would see when her eyelids fell like the curtain before the final act of an opera.

Against her will, though she had not sought to restrain it, her magic had stretched out, begging for solace, an alleviation of her agony.

Then, just when she thought she couldn't handle another second of the tortured memories, Marvolo's magic had come to her—just as it had that desperate night when she was fifteen. It had come for her in the twilight hours, whispering promises that she couldn't quite hear. The words didn't matter, though, because the intent in his magic was blatant; it engulfed her in a protective cloud that she would wager was strong enough to block the Unforgivable Curses.

The endless, graphic series of 'What Might Have Been' died that night.

Marvolo had willingly returned the shield to her: the magic shield that meant true safety from all threats. He had first offered it to her without her requesting it, proving that he was a caring and honorable wizard. She didn't know how or why he had chosen to offer her his protection that first time, but she was immensely grateful for his kindness.

It was gone when she awoke, and she spent another fraught day in her chambers. What if he never offered it again? What if he disappeared, as he had seemed to do when she was fifteen? What if she never, ever, _ever_ felt secure and cared for again? How could she bear to live with stomach-wrenching dread and trepidation every second for the rest of her life?

She had been huddled in her bathtub the third evening, wishing the bubbles could block emotions as well as the sight of her body. Then miraculously, without any prodding, begging, or groveling on her part, Marvolo's magic had embraced her in a cloak of invulnerability. She had been granted asylum inside his magic, and she felt assured that he would not suddenly withhold it from her ever again.

That was something her father would do—offer safety and kindness to someone in need. Few men measured up to the example her father and grandfather set, but Marvolo had already proven himself their equal in several ways. Perhaps she was more like her mother than she thought, because Marvolo was incontestably attractive on more than a physical level, exposing himself as a generous, trustworthy man, which were qualities her mother lauded.

When Haesel had awoken that morning, she had felt refreshed, alive, and adventurous. Everyone at the breakfast table had fallen silent when she strolled into the room as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't spent the past few days hiding behind the most complex wards in the manor. She pretended the hysterical flight from her brother and father's presence was imagined (wanting to keep Marvolo to herself for a little longer), and calmly informed Henry that they would be utilizing Heir Draco's offer to ride the Abraxans in a few hours' time.

That was where it happened—his hands touching her for the first time.

Haesel's fingers folded inward, wrinkling the nightgown. "It was real," she whispered dazedly. She could still feel the heat of his palms, the firm yet gentle grip of his hands, as if he had imprinted their texture into her skin in the exact spot he had placed them. He had been very careful to not set his hands too low on her hips, or too high on her waist, and she appreciated the courtesy. Most men would have _accidentally_ attempted to touch what was not theirs. Marvolo was different. Honorable. Something she greatly valued, being a Potter maiden.

"Some wizard's finally got your fancy, has he?" her mirror clucked. "About time some bloke caught your eye."

"There's nothing wrong with being discerning," Haesel huffed. Her mirror was often much too opinionated on the topic of relationships.

"So you've told me before." If the mirror were a person, it would be peering down its nose at her. "Well, what's he like then? Don't keep the good news all to yourself."

Haesel searched her mind for appropriate adjectives, but they didn't come as easily as one might expect. Marvolo was so . . . well, he was hard to describe. "He's honorable. Intelligent. Powerful."

"Boring," the mirror yawned. "That bit is obvious, isn't it? If he weren't he wouldn't be worthy of a Potter maiden. Tell me how he looks! I bet he's fit, isn't he? Strong? Handsome? Someone who will have no trouble getting your blood pumping, right? You, dear girl, need some of that in your life. I expect he'll get lovely babies off you, too."

Haesel spluttered and pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. Was her mirror suggesting that—that—_that_?

"Of course, the nightgown you're wearing might tempt him more than a negligee on your bonding night. You look very, very pure, my dear. And powerful wizards seem to enjoy that thing quite a lot."

Haesel crossed her arms over her chest, as if Marvolo were in her wardrobe and staring at her. They fell back to her sides moments later. "This nightgown is perfectly modest," she snapped, temper riled. "And, and—" She inhaled deeply and pointed one finger at the mirror in a threatening gesture. "He doesn't think of me like that. He's a gentleman!"

The mirror chortled. "My dear, you say that as if you believe it."

She stamped her foot. "I do!"

"Well, your father's a gentleman, too. Are you saying he never had designs on your mother?" the mirror teased. "Just where do you think you came from, my dear."

Haesel's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. She refused to let her mind go there, but she couldn't discount the mirror's point. Her father _was_ a gentleman, and she and Henry _did_ exist. She flushed scarlet.

"Your naivety is adorable, my dear, but you need to be realistic, too. Bonding means babies, and babies don't grow in cauldrons."

"I'm not an idiot! I know bonding leads to babies. And of course babies don't grow in cauldrons!" She contemplated blasting the mirror to pieces, but knew it wouldn't work. All sentient magical items were protected by the family magic. "And who said anything about bonding?" she snapped defensively.

The mirror's voice was surprisingly solemn as it said, "My dear, in all the years that I've known you, you've never once showed _real_ interest in a wizard. Tonight you're standing before me in your nightgown and touching your waist, babbling about how warm and safe you feel. Can you honestly tell me that you haven't already chosen your future lord and husband?"

Was that what she had done? Had she already, consciously or not, made her final decision. Haesel leaned back against a rack of day dresses and tried to picture her future. Where would she be a year from now? Two? Five? Ten? One hundred? Each image that came to her mind revolved around her and Marvolo. And in each one—every single vision—he was touching her in some way, just as he had today.

Haesel's hands returned to her waist, and then slid downward to cover her womb. She could not picture children growing in her womb and leaving her body that he hadn't put there. The briefest thought of any other wizard claiming her body sent her magic into a vicious spike, worse than the time Mr. Diggory had grabbed her from Diagon Alley.

It seemed she had chosen, after all.

The diplomat.

Marvolo.

"Well, my dear. Which is it?"

For the first time, Haesel allowed the words to spill from her lips. "I've chosen. You're right. I've already chosen."

"That's what I thought." The mirror chuckled naughtily, ruining the somber mood. "And if you know that, consciously or not, then your magic does. And if your magic does, then his magic does. And if his magic does, then he does, my dear."

That made all too much sense for her frail sense of realization.

"And when a wizard knows a maiden has chosen him as her lord—gentleman or not—every fiber of his being will be desperate to claim her as his own."

Haesel had a vague idea of what being truly intimate involved. Her mother had spoken to her when she was fourteen years old, and phrased it delicately. She knew that she and her future husband would share the same bed and that he would 'worship her', her mother said. She knew that the first time would hurt unavoidably, because it was proof she was a worthy and virtuous witch. But her mother had promised it wasn't very painful, and that her husband would be gentle and loving with her.

She had overheard a few Muggle-borns speaking once, and figured out—despite their vulgar euphemisms—that making love involved a full physical joining. (Of course, they were talking about pre-marital copulation, which, in her opinion, was the worst decision a witch could ever make; her mother had told her so. Isadore Potter had said, "Only your husband, your lord, may worship you. Don't even let other wizards close to you." Her father had walked in at this part and said, "_Cruciate_ anyone who tries. I'll make sure you don't go to Azkaban.")

A tendril of foreign magic kissed her magic, which was still spiking erratically. Hers calmed the moment she realized it was Marvolo's. He must have felt her distress again. The feeling of overwhelming safety returned. Even from a distance, late at night, he was still there for her. It was never intrusive, never forced upon her. Instead, it was comfort and love personified.

He was not going to abandon her again; she trusted in that, in him.

Haesel licked her dry lips, hands clasped over her womb. "If—" She swallowed and took a deep breath. "If it's Marvolo, I could trust him not to hurt me—like Mother said. If it's Marvolo . . ." She blushed again and ducked her head, a portion of ebony hair falling forward to shield her face. "Bearing his children would be . . . creating children would be all right." She pictured a little boy with curly black hair, an auburn shine to it, and a little girl with his dark, enchanting eyes. "But only—_only_ if it's Marvolo."

Before the mirror could reply, Haesel snatched a hooded red-velvet cloak off a nearby rack and spun it about her shoulders. She strode out of her wardrobe, bedchamber, and into the hallway. She owed her brother an explanation now, while the truth of such an important realization was still fresh in her mind.

She only knocked once on his door before pushing it open and striding inside, the cloak clasped shut by her trembling hands.

Henry looked up from where he sat on a sofa before the roaring fireplace. The summer nights had been unseasonably chilly this past week. "Are you ready to talk about it?" The question sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the room.

"Yes," Haesel whispered, before closing the distance between them. She dropped onto the sofa beside him and snuggled against his side, relishing the weight of his arm as it surrounded her.

A hand hooked under her chin and tilted her head back until their gazes met. A lock of hair obscured her vision, and Henry tenderly tucked it behind her ear. "You said 'His magic', Sis. Whose magic were you talking about? And what did it do to you? Why did it bother you so much? I've never seen you panic like that in public before." He leaned down and placed a reassuring kiss on her brow.

If Haesel hadn't already given her word to her brother, she wouldn't have mentioned Marvolo at all. He felt like a secret, the kind that could change lives.

"His name is Marvolo," she confessed, as if offering up the given name of a Djinn and three wishes to her brother.

"Marvolo?" His voice squeaked the barest bit, as he stared at her in shock. "You call him 'Marvolo'?"

Haesel felt her earlier blush return with a vengeance. "He bid me to call him that." She briefly considered mentioning no one else had been around to offer a formal introduction, but she knew how well her brother would take that. Not at all.

"All right."

"He's a diplomat!" she blurted out, when the silence lengthened.

Henry stilled; not even his chest moved, as if his very real need to breathe had mysteriously vanished. "A diplomat?"

"Yes, a diplomat."

"An ambassador is a diplomat." Henry's jaw clenched dangerously. "Haesel, are you suggesting that Lord Slytherin gave you a false first name, hid his identity, and convinced you to address him familiarly?"

"What?" That couldn't be right. Yes, an ambassador was a diplomat, but why in the world would Lord Slytherin not want to be properly introduced? Surely such an important man would demand propriety be followed to the letter. If the rumors were true, as Zach and Henry teased, and he had returned for her, he would have plotted to meet her at the coming of age gala and awed her with his titles, right? She snorted. "Marvolo can't possibly be Lord Slytherin, Henry."

"How do you know that?"

"Because Marvolo banters with me. Can you imagine Lord Slytherin tolerating such a thing from his wife?" She cocked an eyebrow in challenge.

Henry rubbed the back of his head. "No. Those oligarchy types are all uppity," he whispered, eyes darting around as if he expected their mother to tap the back of his head and tell him not to be disrespectful.

Haesel lifted a hand and pretended to hold a monocle to her left eye. "Lord Potter, are you quite sure your granddaughter's fully grown? She looks a mite small. Did you feed her the proper amount of vegetables when she was a child."

"A member of the oligarchy at my granddaughter's coming of age gala? Why, I shall just faint into the punch, shall I? Would that please your lordship?" Henry said in a brilliant imitation of Grandfather Charlus's voice.

They erupted into laughter, shoulders and arms bumping together as they shook with mirth. "Marvolo's not like that," she gasped. "He c-couldn't possibly be Lord Slytherin." Haesel snickered a few more times before saying, "Besides, Lord Slytherin's what, eighty, ninety? He must certainly _look_ older! Marvolo can't be more than a quarter of a century old, I'd wager."

Henry glanced down at her. "Rumor has it that Lord Slytherin doesn't look a day over twenty-five."

Snorting, Haesel shook her head. "And we both know that every rumor in the pureblood drawing rooms is true. Why, people would never lie to Lord Slytherin's face about how dashingly handsome and _young_ he looks. It's a coincidence, nothing more." She waved her hand dismissively. She had lost count of how many times she had heard someone tell an elderly witch or wizard that his or her face and figure were decades younger, when it was not the case at all.

"Right, well, I'm sure you'll get to meet his supreme lordship soon enough," Henry teased.

Haesel grimaced. She could already hear the clamor she would cause by refusing Lord Slytherin's suit—if that was, indeed, why he had returned to England. If Salazar himself showed up at her gala, she would turn him down too. She had already made her choice, and nothing was going to change her mind.

_Marvolo_.

"Don't remind me," she mumbled tiredly. That was a media nightmare that she wasn't anticipating in the least.

"His magic," Henry said leadingly as he nudged her in the ribs with his elbow.

"Morgana, Henry, it's intoxicating," she breathed reverently. She closed her eyes and shuddered, only aware her brother could feel it when he tightened his grip on her. "It calls to me," she confessed. "It begs for my attention all the time. He's so powerful and honorable. I've never felt anything like it before." And it was true, too. None of the other wizards she had met had been this appealing on more than a superficial level. None had commanded, demanded her whole being, and offered the same in return.

Her magic had finally stopped searching. It had no need to now. The goal of the quest had been achieved; what was lost had been found: Marvolo.

They sat in silence for several minutes before Henry shattered it. "So it's finally happened. You found someone worthy."

"Yes. I did." She laid her head on his chest. "And it was terrifying, Henry. I think I could drown myself in his magic and never even think to try and breathe. I would placidly let it lull me into submission."

Henry swallowed loudly. "That's . . ."

"But—" She tucked her head under her brother's chin and allowed herself to ponder something she hadn't understood until this afternoon, when Marvolo had cast her own words back at her. "I think it's the same for him. I think he is just as drawn to me, that he would let my magic consume him like Fiendfyre. It's dangerous, oh so very dangerous, but that doesn't mean it can't be used to protect as well."

"How can I keep you safe from something like that?" he breathed, hands shaking.

Haesel kissed his chest, right over his heart, and then pulled back so she could look him dead in the eyes. "You can't."

"You've chosen him, haven't you?" asked Henry, a knowing look on his face. "This Marvolo the Diplomat, Marvolo of no last name, Marvolo of powerful and honorable magic, he's going to be my brother-in-law."

She thought of Marvolo's words that afternoon, and the knowledge he had shared: she had somehow been sending him visions of her life since she was a mere child. It seemed destiny had foreordained the wizard that would stand at her side and be her lord. She could not begrudge its choice. Marvolo was a great man: protective, caring, trustworthy, and attractive.

Haesel opened her mouth and spoke a Potter vow in five simple words. "I will have no other."

* * *

It was not a private room. There was, once again, no door. Just a wide-open archway in the chess room, a table set back a little from the rest, room for just the table and two comfortable armchairs. Somehow, the space had been expanded as soon as Master Henry entered it behind his sister; a house-elf immediately appeared with a chair.

"Don't mind if I join you, do you, sir?" Master Henry asked, grinning up at Marvolo.

He could hardly say 'no' to his future wife's brother, especially as Master Henry was acting as a guard dog. It was not unusual for witches to engage in private games in clubs, but it was always in the presence of others, and, well, Marvolo could see every eye on the three of them as Lady Haesel settled across from him.

"Chess?" she asked, sweeping her hand across the board to reset it. Marvolo had been playing against himself, not that he minded the company of the enchanting witch across from him.

A slight smirk graced his face when he acknowledged that she had, once again, sought him out. "I didn't know you played," he said, politely gesturing for her to make the first move.

"And yet I knew you did. How odd." Her voice was light again, and her eyes flashed with a hidden knowledge as her magic reached out to caress him.

Everyone was listening. The frown on Heir Malfoy's face was pronounced as he sat with the eldest of his sisters, clearly having been waiting for Lady Haesel's appearance. He could also spot a few other suitors with just a quick glance to the main chess room beyond.

"Are you looking forward to your coming of age gala, Lady Haesel? I heard tell that you dance with your uncle—Valerius Vaisey. How utterly proper of you." The last bit was said teasingly, as she was rarely proper when he saw her.

Master Henry had been reading a book that he had brought along, as if he knew his sister's plan to seek out Marvolo and was acting the part of a dutiful—though curious—brother. His head snapped up at the mention of their uncle, though.

"By Merlin, how did you know that? No one knows that except the family and Lord Slytherin." His words were just a whisper, but an anxious one at that, and he shot a look at his sister.

"_Why _would Lord Slytherin know about my first dance?" she asked. "And how would you know about Lord Slytherin being in possession of such knowledge, Henry?"

Master Henry huffed, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. "I overheard Granddad and Dad speaking."

"Pranking someone then." There were no accusations in Lady Haesel's tone, only a reiteration of fact. The slight glare she aimed at her brother betrayed her seeming nonchalance, though. It seemed she didn't appreciate secrets being kept from her. That was something Marvolo would have to keep in mind.

"If you say so. It appears that the rumors are true. He actually paid Granddad a visit, according to what I heard. Mum and Dad were going to give him your maiden dance, but—"

"I requested Uncle Valerius." She looked at Marvolo and he held her gaze, then she turned back to her brother. "Isn't Lord Slytherin a little old to dance?"

Marvolo hadn't quite realized he'd been holding his breath during this conversation. Lady Haesel had not guessed yet. The game was still on . . . and yet part of him yearned for her to know the truth. To hear her whisper "my lord" in his ear when he held her close. To lo— He interrupted that train of thought immediately; it could go nowhere constructive.

"Probably. Perhaps he's too dignified," Master Henry answered, breaking Marvolo from his thoughts.

"No one, even Lord Slytherin," Marvolo purred, "would be too dignified to dance at my lady's gala." Lady Haesel blushed and bowed her head in acknowledgment. "Whether my lady chooses to accept his offer of a dance, though, is an entirely different matter." Marvolo deftly moved his queen to take her bishop, and rejoiced in Lady Haesel's gasp of surprise.

"Have you had occasion to meet his lordship, sir?" Master Henry asked. "My sister informs me you're a diplomat. Perhaps you have seen him since his much spoken of return?" There was a challenge in his eyes, as if Master Henry suspected the truth despite most of the evidence to the contrary.

Marvolo paused, considering his options, and a smile then graced his lips. He was happy when Lady Haesel returned it openly; he could imagine their audience's envy. "I believe his lordship has frequented this very club of late. Perhaps he's trying to catch a glimpse of my lady?"

"You believe the rumors, then." Master Henry's voice was hard, and Lady Haesel instantly looked at him in question.

"I believe," Marvolo began carefully, settling against the back of his chair, "that if any woman were to cause Lord Slytherin to forsake his bachelor ways and the rumored exotic landscape of his diplomatic post, then my lady would certainly be the ideal candidate. It is, of course, all speculation, however widespread."

"Are you saying that I'm beautiful despite my height then, Diplomat?" Lady Haesel teased as she analyzed the board.

Master Henry frowned slightly, as if he disapproved of his sister's taunt.

"I believe you know my opinion on that particular subject already," Marvolo teased back. He was surprised a moment later to see that Lady Haesel had captured one of his rooks. "Touché, my lady."

"Thank you, Diplomat." Her lips caressed the word, and he smiled at her, his eyes betraying emotions that he had not yet confronted within himself.

She was too wonderful—too perfect—too precious. The Islanders had nothing to her, even the Queens Lucy and Susan, once human and yet now so utterly _other_. She was intoxicating, and Marvolo blamed his own blindness for not realizing it before he sailed. He'd forsaken a lover he had chased for two tides after just one night together, all because the hint of jasmine came on the waves.

And all might have been lost. The thought made Marvolo's heart twinge.

Since he had last seen Lady Haesel (and failed to receive adequate information on the event in question), he had looked into the matter of her being Mr. Cedric Diggory's hostage. What he had found was, well, shocking and infuriating: a restraining order that had been filed the morning after the Second Task. There was a closed file of a trial that even he couldn't open (which had taken place some months later)—meaning that the crime was dire enough to never be spoken of except by the victim, if he or she may so choose. Given that Lady Haesel's magic was pure, she had, thank Merlin and Morgana, not been violated. But it was something serious—most likely a kidnapping, if his intuition was correct.

"Now," he began, "I need you to clarify something for me, my lady." Before he lost another night's sleep by creating one horrific scenario after another. "Mr. Diggory attempted to kidnap you?" Marvolo implored her to answer, despite the hitch in her breath. She shuddered and closed her eyes, and he regretted causing that reaction, but he needed to know. To understand what had happened to her. To give her everything she deserved. To lay the world at her feet if she asked him for it.

He turned to Master Henry for an answer when he was met with silence. "Dad was there, though he was hardly needed," Master Henry answered. "Mr. Diggory was a bit—infatuated."

"Unsurprising, given my lady," Marvolo responded, wishing to reach out and touch Lady Haesel's fingers to offer her some comfort. Instead, he wrapped his magic around her to make her feel as if she were held in a warm embrace that he, as yet, could not physically offer her. No matter how much he desired to do just that. "So, he was infatuated?"

"I turned him down when he asked me to be his companion for the Yule Ball," Lady Haesel answered after taking a deep breath. "Instead, I went with Uncle Valerius to enjoy the dancing. Still, I was his hostage during the Second Task, while his girlfriend was not."

"She was in Ravenclaw, if I remember," Master Henry added in. "Neither Uncle Valerius, Heir Smith, nor myself allowed her to be alone after she was pulled out of the lake, but that summer—"

Marvolo's eyes narrowed dangerously. A wave of possessiveness and something more tender—something he could not quite identify except as 'sentiment', although the term was severely lacking—overtook him. He ground his teeth to stop himself from reaching forward and embracing Lady Haesel for all to see, so that everyone would know what they both knew: that she was his, that she was his future bride, and the lady of his heart. And yet, he forced himself to remain seated, to appear calm, and sent another protective wave of magic toward Lady Haesel.

"It was in Diagon Alley," Lady Haesel revealed, before taking one of his pawns. "He made to grab me, succeeded for a few moments, but my magic threw him off."

"He's rotting in a cell in Azkaban for ten years," Master Henry said gleefully. "They broke his wand."

"And so the tale ends," Lady Haesel said. "A minor annoyance."

Hardly that, Marvolo reasoned. No wonder her magic had called to him so drastically that year. Any pureblood witch would have been traumatized. Yet the strength she clearly comported herself with said she was unafraid, that she could protect herself. Yet her magic called for his as if he were her lord already, needing and desiring his protection and care.

_Bond with me,_ it whispered.

The undoubted answer was a resounding _Yes_, and yet propriety would not allow him to properly court her for another week. And then there would be other first marriage dates that she would be obliged to attend. Even then . . . It did not bear thinking about.

Marvolo had known the instant she had decided that he was to be her lord. Her magic had arrived at the manor and roused him from his rest, circling about him happily, playfully, teasingly, whispering to him how much she loved him, even though she knew so little about him. It had taken every fiber of Marvolo's being not to storm Potter Manor in that instant and bring her back to his manor—_their _home—the place where she belonged, by his side, wherever he traveled . . . perhaps even as far as the Lone Islands.

"Enough about my sister," Master Henry suddenly put in. "I know you're a diplomat, that your mother named you Marvolo, and that you're a pureblood. That's not nearly enough." Wary skepticism on Master Henry's face proved that he wasn't as naïve as Marvolo had first assumed.

"She did not." Marvolo's voice was low and full of repressed emotion. Thinking about his mother hurt, but at least he knew she had loved him. He could still feel that from the broken bond, even after all these decades. He had never been given a godfather or godmother, so his maternal bond had been especially strong. He could still feel echoes of her magic, and he would swear that she had sung him lullabies when he was still with child.

The bond with his Muggle father—if you could even call that pathetic sliver of frayed thread a bond—had been incinerated by his own doing. He didn't regret it in the least.

Lady Haesel gasped and looked up at him. "She didn't?"

"No, my lady. I own that she named me for my father. I have never cared for the name and so my close acquaintances call me by my second name, which was incidentally my maternal grandfather's."

Lady Haesel stared at him openly, questioningly, and he could not help but elaborate, as she wished he would.

"My father, while undoubtedly wealthy, abandoned my mother when she was with child. He claimed, quite falsely, that he had been bewitched. I do not care to bear his name." Even if such a thing was true, his father was a spineless, dishonorable coward for abandoning his mother. He had been right to kill the man.

"No, of course not," Lady Haesel said gently and then, after a moment's pause, he felt her small hand slide over his. He hadn't even realized he had clenched it into a fist until he relaxed beneath her touch, allowing their fingers to intertwine, hidden from the view of the rest of the room but decidedly in front of her brother's astute gaze.

Master Henry cleared his throat.

Neither Marvolo nor Lady Haesel moved away from each other or showed any inclination to do so.

Huffing, Master Henry asked, "So, then, are you a lord? An heir? An heir's heir?"

"A lord," he answered succinctly. "My lady rightly deduced, however, that for many years I was addressed only in a professional capacity. 'Diplomat' is much more fitting than everyone calling me 'my lord'. I find it quite tedious."

"It can be," Lady Haesel agreed. "And trying to keep everyone straight—"

"—and the half-bloods and Muggle-borns getting up in arms—" her brother added.

"—insisting they be called 'Miss' and 'Mister' as if they had any _right_ to such titles." Lady Haesel shook her head, the few loose curls of her ebony hair swishing against her shoulders, which were covered with only the thinnest layer of fabric. It was elegant and tantalizing, as if it had been specially chosen for _him_ to see her in it. "I must confess that the entire thing just gives me a headache." She smiled at him before turning to her brother.

"Be thankful you weren't at Hogwarts my first year when Granger first arrived. She was a menace. She didn't understand why she kept on getting detention for calling purebloods by their given names without their consent."

"How scandalous," Marvolo joked, placing his lady in check, his other hand still intertwined with hers. "I take it I shall not make her acquaintance at either the Smiths' Masquerade Ball tomorrow night or your own gala?"

"Certainly not at the latter," Lady Haesel answered. "Most likely not at the former." She smiled to herself, as if she had some secret piece of knowledge that she would not openly admit. The look suited her, Marvolo decided. How delightful it would be in the future, trying to pry her secrets from her, only to be greeted by that look before he could kiss it away.

"Shall you be in attendance at the Masquerade, my lord?" Master Henry asked. When Marvolo glanced at him in annoyance, he quickly added, "You can hardly expect me to address you as 'diplomat'!"

"No, I suppose not," Marvolo conceded. That form of address was for his lady alone. "And, yes, I thought I might. Sadly, I imagine my lady shall not be in attendance." And what a pity that would be. Marvolo was curious as to what Lady Haesel would dare to wear at such a ball. She would never be so pedestrian as to dress as a Founder, after all.

"At least not dancing," Master Henry muttered under his breath, which caused Lady Haesel to smile secretly again. Ah, so she _would_ be there, hidden under a disguise, though her magic could never lie to him.

"You are acquainted with Lord and Lady Smith, then?" asked Lady Haesel. Her sudden interest made sense, seeing as she had told him that Heir Smith was her closest friend.

"No," he answered truthfully. "My title guarantees me an invitation, however, now that I am within the country."

"You are just full of mysteries, one right after another!" Lady Haesel exclaimed quietly, catching his eye before expertly moving out of check.

"I hope not too many, and certainly not from you."

He made his move. She made another in complete silence, checking him. Marvolo would have startled if he hadn't found her presence so soothing. No one but King Edmund had checked him since he was a student at Hogwarts!

"Tell me a bit about your title then, if you refuse to give it."

He removed his surprised eyes from the chessboard. "It's from my mother's side of the family. It was discovered while I was at Hogwarts that I was the sole male heir to a line and because of the nature of the magic of that line, I was laureled a lord." Marvolo always hated that phrase; it sounded too much like a rhyme. But one crowned a king and laureled a lord, for whatever reason. One of his tutors might have lectured him on it decades ago, but he hadn't found the information useful.

"How intriguing," Lady Haesel supplied, her face showing genuine interest. It was the genuine part that he adored. People too often feigned interest while in his company due to one, or all, of his titles. She was truly unlike most people he knew. "Your mother, she didn't know?"

"No, she knew," Marvolo answered. "Her family, though, didn't appear to seek recognition among their fellow purebloods." Inbred, illiterate lot that they were. All the Gaunts cared about was their supposed greatness as they sunk further and further into squalor. They were descended from not only Salazar Slytherin, but also one of the Peverell brothers, for Merlin's sake!

"How unlike the majority of society," Lady Haesel mused as she placed him back in check. Marvolo found himself on the defensive, his king running away from several of her pieces at once.

"Ah," she cried after only two more moves. "Checkmate!"

Marvolo, despite having lost, couldn't help but smile at the unabashed joy shining through her face as she looked at him. Spending time with her had put it there.

* * *

**Note:** So my weekend has been kind of crappy. I'd love some good news. Share yours with me in your review? Also, thank you to the anonymous reviewers; sorry I can't answer them. I read every one. :)


	8. Part the Seventh

**Part the Seventh**

Lady Haesel sat on a velvet-upholstered stool, back facing her mahogany vanity. Her eyes were closed to slits as she felt the miniature paintbrush dance across her face. The hem of Iolanthe Malfoy's mint green robes was all she could see. Requesting her assistance for the evening was a stroke of genius on two levels: the girl truly was talented, and, also, it would please Henry—once he returned from the professional Quidditch game he was attending with Leo and Aries, of course.

Rumors abounded in Hogwarts about which witch captivated the future Potter Lord. The odds seemed to be split between Romilda Vane, Astoria Greengrass, and Lacerta Malfoy. Haesel was the only one who knew where her brother's true affections lay.

"Could you tilt your chin for me, please?" Iolanthe asked. Her voice was soft, like Haesel's mother's; it attracted attention when voiced for that very reason, the lack of loudness. She was a witch people had to _listen to_, if they wanted to hear her.

Haesel obeyed, fighting the urge to squirm as the brush tickled across her skin. There was a short silence, and then Iolanthe stilled. Haesel opened her eyes fully to see what was wrong, because she knew Iolanthe wasn't done yet. "You wish to ask me something." It wasn't a question.

"Why me?" Against the usual customs, Iolanthe's hair wasn't pulled back; it hung free in silky golden curls. Haesel knew she had only left it down because they Apparated directly to her chambers and no wizards had been around to glimpse its beauty. Only a witch's husband, parents, and children had the right to see her hair in all its glory.

Refusing to reveal her brother's secret, Haesel debated on what to say. She wasn't fond of deceit in any manner. In fact, she loathed all forms of it. "I wanted it to be you."

Iolanthe bit her lower lip, another thing she would never do in public. It was a nervous tick, a fidget, and reminded Haesel of when she had been twelve and constantly picked at her nails, much to her mother's consternation. "For Master Henry?"

Haesel sucked in a sharp breath. "Beg pardon?" Had Henry unwittingly revealed where his interest lay during one of those sword-fighting lessons he offered Iolanthe whenever Haesel went to ride the Abraxans? Impossible! Lacerta would've thrown a fit. It was common knowledge that she had set her cap at Henry, just as Pansy Parkinson had set hers at Heir Draco.

Light pink colored Iolanthe's cheeks, and she stared down at the toes of her slippers. "Can you keep a secret, Lady Haesel?"

She was insulted at the implied slight to her honor, and it must've shown on her face when Iolanthe glanced upward, because she paled, which was quite a feat given the Malfoy complexion.

"I didn't mean it like—" Iolanthe trembled, and then fisted her hands. "I meant to ask, may I have your word that you won't mention what I'm about to tell you to anyone? I would never doubt the vow of a Potter. I just—if word got out before I'm bonded . . ." She shuddered and looked scared.

Haesel reached forward and placed a hand over Iolanthe's nearest fist, uncurling the fingers gently. The half-moons on the girl's palm were deep; she had almost drawn her own blood. "You have my word."

"I got my first menses in February," Iolanthe confessed, gaze fixed on her slippers once more. "And they came with a gift." The last word was smothered in inflections, sounding more like 'curse' than 'gift'. "I—" She bit her lower lip again. "I'm a Matchmaker."

It was hard to breathe, and not because of the corset Haesel wore.

There hadn't been a true Matchmaker since Meliflua Malfoy's time, some two hundred years past. Iolanthe was right to be frightened; if anyone found out, the battle for her hand would be second in brutality only to Haesel's own. As a Matchmaker she could see the bonds between people, could follow the threads of magic to determine if two individuals were compatible, and, if so, how compatible. It was a gift that ran in the Malfoy line, rarely surfacing, and brought much distinction and honor, quite like being a Metamorphmagus if one possessed Black blood.

It was a dangerous claim to make, and yet . . . "Prove it." She had to be sure.

Iolanthe's blue eyes focused on her, and the irises seemed to briefly slosh about like liquid. "You're going to soul-bond," she said. "And—" She swallowed, as if she feared her next words would upset Haesel. "Your coming of age gala serves no purpose. You've already chosen your lord, and he has accepted your magical claiming. The required marriage dates with other wizards will be a painful obligation as you're forced to pretend anyone else could win your heart. The world has not seen the like of your bonding since Merlin himself proved worthy of the Lady Morgana."

That was all-too-true. Allowing a minimum of four other wizards to have a preliminary marriage date with her was going to be torture of the worst kind. Her thoughts flittered back to what had prompted this confession. "Why did you mention my brother?" Haesel thought she knew, but, again, she had to be sure. Her brother's heart wasn't something to be trifled with.

Tears pooled in Iolanthe's eyes and spilled down her cheeks. "If my parents don't formally betroth me to someone, because I'm only the second daughter, Master Henry and I will soul-bond," she whispered.

The blood in Haesel's veins felt like ice. She hadn't considered that. Sometimes the second born daughters were bartered away in betrothal contracts without ever getting a season. "Has there been talk of such?"

"Y-yes."

Haesel was impressed with Iolanthe's fortitude. If she had been in the same situation, if her parents thought to keep her from a true soul-bond, knowingly or not, the agony would be immense. It would feel like the lowest type of betrayal, especially to a young girl who had been Sorted into Hufflepuff due to family loyalty.

"You haven't told your parents," stated Haesel.

"No. Father would announce it to the world. I'm not ready for that." He would, too. Lord Malfoy couldn't help but flaunt himself. He reminded Haesel all-too-much of the stuffy white peacocks on the Malfoy properties.

Feeling her brother's magic approach her chambers, Haesel narrowed her eyes shrewdly. Even if Iolanthe hadn't possessed such a wonderful magical gift, she couldn't allow Lord and Lady Malfoy to betroth Iolanthe to someone else. It would break her brother's heart. He must feel the potential of their bond, because he had had eyes for no one but Iolanthe since he first met her.

"If given the choice, you would have my brother?" asked Haesel.

Iolanthe nodded weakly. "I wish for no other."

Haesel stood up and tucked a finger under Iolanthe's chin to raise her head. She was lovely, even while crying. "If you will trust me, will believe in the Potter honor, will know I mean only for you and my brother to be happy, I will ensure he is yours, little sister." Raw gratitude swamped the pale features before her. "Will you place yourself in my hands?"

Blonde curls bobbed as Iolanthe nodded. "I will."

"Then welcome to the family." Haesel hugged her tightly and then stepped backward, a smile on her face. "Wait here. And remember, you have to trust me. All right?"

"Yes, my lady."

Haesel waved a hand dismissively. "None of that 'my lady' nonsense. You're going to be my sister. You have permission to call me by my name."

A tentative smile greeted her comment. "Thank you, Haesel."

"Much better!" Haesel clapped her hands and then stalked out of her dressing room and through her bedchamber. She turned the knob and opened the door just as Henry had raised his hand to knock.

"Haesel." His eyes swept her form. "I was expecting you to be ready by now. We've got to leave soon if you want to arrive before the masses. And seeing as you're not supposed to be attending any balls before your own . . ." He cocked an eyebrow at her.

Haesel beckoned her brother into her room and then shut the door. "A matter of great import has been brought to my attention."

"Oh? What's that?" Henry asked, face pensive. "Something to do with your Marvolo?"

She ignored that teasing jab and asked, "What are your feelings for Iolanthe Malfoy?"

Henry halted, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air beside her face. "You already know them," he rasped.

"Remind me," she commanded. After the tearful confession her future little sister had just given, she had to be sure of her brother's own emotions—regardless of how many times she had heard them in the past. She could secure their future, but not if one of them possessed a fickle love, despite the potential Iolanthe had seen. Potential was just that, and wasn't always achieved.

"I would have her for my wife. Like you and your Marvolo, I want no other. I'll happily wait until she's of age, and then win her hand," Henry stated. His jaw was clenched with determination, and his hazel eyes dared her to call him a liar. That was enough proof for her.

"I need you to trust me, Henry, and do everything I ask of you for the next few minutes. Will you do that?" It was a lot to ask of most people, but she knew that Henry knew she wouldn't ask such a thing of him lightly.

"I will."

"Then follow me." She spun on her heel, the skirt of her gown flaring out before settling back against her legs. Haesel walked back to her dressing room, smirking when Henry gasped behind her. A glance over her shoulder showed that he had stopped at the threshold, staring helplessly at Iolanthe's beatific, unbound curls.

"Haesel?" Iolanthe asked, voice trembling. Her cheeks had darkened to a deep pink when Henry entered the room. She edged closer to the vanity, as if she sought to hide behind it from Henry's worshipful gaze.

"I'm so sorry, Lady Iolanthe!" Henry exclaimed. "I never would've dreamed of intruding on—"

Haesel grabbed his arm when he went to turn around and leave, words of apology tumbling from his lips. "Oh, no, you don't." She tugged him deeper into her dressing room.

"Haesel, what are you doing?" Henry asked, sounding truly scandalized with her for the first time she could remember.

"What needs to be done," Haesel replied, chin lifted. Yes, this was all more than a mite improper, but she was acting as their chaperone, so it wasn't horrific—in her eyes at least. Besides, it's not like anyone else would ever find out where this happened, anyway. She wasn't going to tell anyone, and the fierce blushes on Henry and Iolanthe's faces ensured they would keep quiet as well.

She finally came to a halt just feet away from Iolanthe and released her brother. "Henry, hold your hands behind you," she commanded.

"Why should I—?"

"Just do it!" She nodded in satisfaction once he clasped his hands behind his back. There, he was less threatening that way; it gave the illusion he couldn't touch anything. Now for the hard part.

"Haesel, what's going on?" Iolanthe whispered, eyes flitting from Henry to Haesel and then back.

"Come here, little sister." Iolanthe moved to Haesel's side and pressed herself against it. She set a hand on Iolanthe's curls and tenderly feathered her fingers through them; they were tighter than her own and wonderfully silky. "I can think of only one way to guarantee your parents can't sign a betrothal contract in your name."

Henry inhaled deeply and swayed, as if he might faint from the shock of what he had just heard. He looked ill and pained as he stared at them.

Haesel turned Iolanthe so that they were facing each other, and then placed her forehead against the younger girl's. Thankfully, it hadn't been painted yet. "Will you trust in the Potter honor, little sister?"

"Yes."

"Then give Henry your maiden's kiss," she breathed.

Iolanthe was visibly flummoxed. She snuggled against Haesel's side and turned her head to stare up at Henry. There was a flicker of doubt on her face, but that was quickly squashed. Now was her chance to prove she trusted her own Matchmaker powers and was willing to work toward a wonderful potential. Haesel could only offer the opportunity; it was Iolanthe's leap to take.

A small step was all that separated Henry from the girls. Iolanthe closed the distance. "You will love me." It wasn't a question.

Henry nodded anyway. "Yes."

Her slender hands rose in the air and hovered near his shoulders. "May I touch you?" she asked, cheeks burning.

Henry gulped. "Yes."

Iolanthe set her hands on his shoulders for balance and leaned up on her tiptoes. Henry still had to bend down slightly to make up the difference in their heights. She closed her eyes and very gently placed her lips atop Henry's, sealing their destiny as future husband and wife.

Haesel barely restrained a snort at the awed look on her brother's face. He had kept his eyes open the whole time, as if he wanted to imprint each second in his memory, so that it could never be forgotten. Perhaps she would get him a Pensieve for his birthday; then he could relive and replay it to his heart's content. Her grin widened when Iolanthe stepped backward, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks before rising. The strain to keep from reaching for her was visible in every line of her brother's body. The glint in his eyes had changed from covetousness to possessiveness as if he had finally earned something he had long sought.

It was, Haesel suddenly realized, similar to how Marvolo stared at her. It said, _You are mine, and nothing can change that. You belong to me, love_.

Now that she had seen that, she was almost desperate to see Marvolo again. That meant she needed to hurry and finish getting ready. "You can stay if you want, Henry, but please be quiet. Iolanthe will need to concentrate while she paints my face."

He nodded dumbly and collapsed onto a nearby chair, staring worshipfully at Iolanthe, much to Haesel's amusement.

Haesel reclaimed her seat and tilted her head just so, silently asking Iolanthe to resume her task. The paintbrush tickled across her skin moments later, swirling down her chin, before working around her eyes. It slid up her forehead in smooth strokes and gentle dots, drying as soon as the brush left her skin to collect more paint. Her costume tonight was designed with one thought in mind: to drive Marvolo wild.

For the first time in her life, she understood why her mother insisted everything be _just so_ when she was going somewhere with her father. Haesel had styled and restyled her mother's hair countless times, had helped her change elaborate robes, and painted her face or arranged masks. She had thought it silly pampering as a young girl, but now it all made sense.

She wanted Marvolo's mouth to literally drop open when he saw her tonight, and nothing was going to deter her.

The sounded of Iolanthe setting down the palette jarred Haesel out of her daydream. Clever fingers worked at her hair for a few minutes, adding the final touches. Iolanthe pursed her lips, scrutinizing her from head to toe, and then proudly announced, "You're ready."

Haesel gracefully rose and turned to face the mirror, which had been miraculously silent this entire time. If she didn't know better, she would say it was flabbergasted. Her reflection stared back at her, and Haesel examined herself critically, before casting one final charm to change the color of her hair.

"Perfect," she breathed. Marvolo wouldn't be able to keep his magic off her, and she was eagerly waiting for the day when he could hug her, or hold her hand, and dance with her without it potentially causing a blasted scandal. "Thank you, little sister."

Iolanthe grinned and curtseyed. "It was my honor. Truly, it was."

A choking sound escaped Henry. "Sis, I'm not sure you should be left alone tonight."

Haesel laughed gaily. "Why, thank you, Henry. That's a lovely compliment."

"I'm serious. What if something happens to you?" he demanded.

"Nothing will happen to me. Besides the fact that I can protect myself, Marvolo would never let anything happen to me," she assured him.

"And if Marvolo happens to you?" he muttered.

Haesel froze, and then glanced kindly at Iolanthe. "I'm very grateful for your help, little sister, but it's almost time for dinner. I'm sure your mother is awaiting your return before she leaves for the ball. I've altered the wards for you."

Iolanthe nodded and grasped the necklace that lay against her chest. She glanced shyly at Henry and whispered, "Until later, Master Henry."

"Goodbye, my lady," he breathed as she activated the Portkey and vanished from Haesel's chambers.

"Is that what you truly think of me?" Haesel whispered with a pain-filled voice. "That I would allow _anyone_ to . . ."

"No!" Henry fisted his hands in his hair and leapt to his feet. "No! I don't think you would _let_ him—I just—you're all grown up now," he said, suddenly looking tired. "Soon enough you'll be living in a different manor, or castle, or wherever Marvolo makes his home. You won't be just down the hall when I need you. You'll be _his lady_ more than _my sister_."

"Oh, Henry." Haesel hugged him and battled her tears victoriously. "We knew things would change."

"But not this fast." He kept his hands on the back of her waist, as if worried he would muss her. "I thought it would be years before anyone even remotely worthy caught your attention. You haven't even been presented yet, and he's already got you."

She leaned back in his hold and clutched his face. "No matter what else changes in my life, you will always be my brother. I'll always be here for you." Haesel kissed his cheek, and his eyes softened as he smiled at her. "Now, I believe we have a masquerade to attend."

"Indeed, we do."

Right before Haesel Disapparated with Henry, she said, "By the way, you make a very dashing King Arthur. Poor Iolanthe must have had a heart attack when you came in here dressed like that."

Henry's laughter echoed as they landed in Smith Castle. "At least I'll never have to worry about my queen straying."

"I should think not!"

A loud clang sounded behind them, and Haesel spun around to see a lethal scimitar on the floor, just a foot away from Zach, who wore harem-style pants, no shirt, and a gold mask. "Aladdin?" she guessed. Aladdin was the last known wizard to have commanded the loyalty of a Djinn; it had long been one of Zach's favorite wizarding tales.

"Merlin, Haesel"—his eyes ran over her body several times, becoming more appreciative with each glance—"you'll cause a bloody riot." His gaze suddenly snapped to her face as he said, "And you will be staying after the ball to explain in precise detail who, exactly, you dressed up for." He looked hurt that she hadn't confided in him yet, and she winced.

"Thank you. And you have my word," she answered. She should've made telling Zach a priority instead of getting distracted by little things. He was her best friend and he deserved the truth. She knew all about his love, and he had long earned the same respect from her. Tonight, she would tell him about Marvolo.

"You had best get in there before everyone starts arriving if you don't want to be mobbed," Zach said, gesturing lazily at the ballroom. "Make it quick, will you? They will be here any minute."

"Of course. Thank you again, Zach. I'll see you later," said Haesel.

"Yes, you will."

Haesel hurried into the ballroom, somewhat dazzled by the splendor. Lord and Lady Smith had gone all out. There were thousands of floating candles in various colors, tables full of delicacies, and a live orchestra already practicing. The orchestra seemed to be standing on air, but Haesel knew it was actually a thin sheet of crystal spelled to be transparent.

There were several alcoves and other antechambers off the sides of the ballroom, curtained with flowing chiffon. She entered one partway down the ballroom, leaving Henry by the food, and smirked at her reflection. She had chosen this particular alcove because it was decent-sized and one wall was a massive, aged mirror.

The gown she wore was very old-fashioned: corseted top, and the barest scrap of lace served as sleeves to keep it up. They weren't even two inches thick, and kissed the outside edges of her shoulders, appearing as if they would slip and fall off any minute. Her skirts fell to the floor, but there was a slit in the top layer of fabric that reached to her waist in the front. The material was ice-blue and was charmed to flicker as if it had been set alight; blue-white flames danced across it. The under layers of the gown were iridescent silver and white, and see-through in the proper lighting. Her hair was piled atop her head in snow-white curls, each pinned in place with pearls. Feathers of varying shades: white, silver, teal, ice-blue, and more had been woven into her hair.

The crowning glory, though, was Iolanthe's painting. Painted across her face with magical paints, meaning it lived as portraits did, was an ice phoenix. Its wings were spread in flight, and its long tail-feathers kissed down her neck, periodically shifting to encircle it like a choker. Its talons curled and jerked, as if catching and killing prey. It was ferociously stunning.

Music shattered her reverie, and Haesel realized that the dancing had just begun. How long had she been lost in thought?

Then she felt it: Marvolo's magic.

It rolled across the ballroom, warning her that he was coming. Irritation occasionally tainted it, and she could just imagine people stopping to speak with him. Oh, how that would annoy him. She had already learned how ornery he got when anyone managed to keep them apart. She had thought he would run Master Lestrange through with a sword when the man had asked her for a game of chess last time she had been at The Golden Fleece.

Closer, closer, closer, until—Haesel grinned and folded her hands before her like a proper lady. She turned to face the chiffon curtain just as his shadow fell against it. It was time for the moment of truth. Had she succeeded as well as everyone seemed to think?

Marvolo pushed aside the curtain and then halted instantly, as if petrified, allowing anyone with the correct line of sight to catch a glimpse of her. His eyes darkened rapidly, putting the night sky to shame, and she heard his breath hitch in his throat. His jaw dropped about an inch, but the compliment inherent in the action, coming from someone so controlled, made it seem like a league. His hand shook the slightest bit, sending ripples along the curtain. That must have broken his trance, because he released it and strode forward, his magic crashing toward her like a tidal wave against a rocky cliff.

He stopped before her, hands reaching forward and enclosing about her waist, his pinkies fitting against the flare of her hips. "_My lady_," he purred possessively, eyes flaring with a need that made her a little nervous. Her stomach fluttered in response. His magic serenaded her, begging her to drown herself in it for the rest of time.

Haesel lifted one trembling hand and set it over his heart, allowing her magic to burn him as his drowned her. Lost in their entwining magic, she leaned up, her lips brushing against his earlobe. Her tone, throaty and husky and seductive, shocked her, but felt undeniably honest. The words were pleading for freedom, and she was pleased to grant it and acknowledge the truth. "_My lord_."

* * *

Marvolo inhaled deeply, believing himself to be caught in some sweet, torturous dream as the words were whispered against his ear. "_My lord_."

"You've decided, then?" he questioned, nuzzling the side of her jaw, taking in her haunting scent, unable to just _let her go_.

He knew this was improper. Lady Haesel was not yet out; while they were technically in public she _shouldn't be there_, and he was holding her tightly while she had yet to give her maiden dance. It was scandalous, not that anyone would ever gainsay him of all people, but his lady did not yet know that. Still, for her to call him that . . .

"Yes," she whispered, her voice still taut with promises of what was yet to come, promises she could not fully realize or understand in her naïveté. "Yes, my lord. You know I have."

He pulled away from her slightly, his hands still resting on her small waist, so that he could look into her gorgeous, ice-blue eyes and read the truth in them that her lips and magic already proclaimed. "Haesel," he murmured, before catching himself. "Forgive me, my lady, I was not given leave—"

"Of course you have leave," she murmured, her hands flexing on his biceps. "You are _my lord_." A womanly coyness now entered her voice. "If you cannot call me by my given name, then who could possibly deserve that privilege?" She looked up at him, her white hair holding in its elegant pile of curls that Marvolo just wanted to run his hands through, but knew for certain that he could not.

Carefully, Marvolo reached up with his right hand and traced the painted phoenix on her face with the tips of his gloved fingers. "Your eyes," he murmured. "Did they serve as your guide, Haesel?" His magic swelled around her, holding her close to him, protecting her, masking her sheer power from the large ballroom. He'd like nothing more than to take her hand and proceed to the dance floor, but it was too soon, and he would not ruin her reputation.

He would not harm her, even to gain her that much sooner.

_Could this_, a small part of his mind that he had long thought dormant asked, _be what love feels like?_

_Yes_, her magic murmured in response. _Can't you recognize it?_

Lady Haesel shifted, leaning her face farther into his touch. "Yes. I was attempting to decide on a disguise and found myself looking in the mirror and thinking about how fortunate I was to inherit my mum's eyes. Dad always says they remind him of an ice phoenix."

"Fortunate indeed," Marvolo agreed. "I am sorry to say that I have made the acquaintance of neither your excellent father nor your mother, as of yet." That was something he would need to rectify, and soon.

"How can you be assured of a successful courtship if you can't even gain a marriage date?" Concern marred her features and her lips formed into a moue. Oh, how Marvolo longed to lean forward and kiss it away.

"I am not without virtues, my lady."

"Of course," she responded, pulling out of his grasp and turning, leading him to a loveseat. As she sat down Marvolo could see a wisp of a calf through her skirt that resembled the water-like plumage of an ice phoenix. "I merely worry—"

Lady Haesel's eyes were downcast. Still, her magic writhed with anxiety, with something left unsaid, and Marvolo waited for Lady Haesel—_Haesel_—to collect her thoughts. Taking a large breath, she continued. "If Mum and Dad don't know you—what if they refuse your offer of courtship?"

Marvolo sat back, taking in his lady's beauty and carefully caressing her left shoulder, delighting in the shiver it sent through her. "I'm acquainted with your grandfather, and he knows my reputation. It's not something about which you need to worry, darling." The endearment fell from his lips, unbidden, but perfectly true—just as it had been the first night he spoke it, while lying abed.

"But I can't even ask for you by name," Lady Haesel argued, her eyes flashing. "I don't know who you are."

"You know me better than anyone," Marvolo countered, knowing it to be true in the wizarding world at least. He doubted that anyone could keep anything secret from the Kings and Queens of the Lone Islands. "You know I'm named Marvolo. Those who knew have forgotten it in favor of my title and position."

Lady Haesel looked down at her hands, her jaw set. "What was your father's name?"

Marvolo stiffened beside her at the question. He didn't—couldn't—think about that. A memory, mostly buried and nearly forgotten, arose in his mind. His disgusting, unscrupulous, and yet handsome Muggle father was sitting beside his grandparents, playing the part of a respectable widower. Marvolo knew, just by looking into his mind, that he was a philandering liar who had more illegitimate children than he could possibly remember. _Disgusting._

"I know what your father did was horrendous," Lady Haesel quickly qualified. "But—I—I don't know your title, or your surname. How can I ask for you if I only know your middle name?"

Marvolo looked at her cautiously before nodding. She was going to be his wife, and she had a right to now what had helped shape his life. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. I'm often called Tom Riddle, Jr., as my father was also named Tom Riddle." It felt like a physical blow to utter such words, so long had he kept them secret. Yet he knew that he could trust her, that she wouldn't judge, that she _loved _him, a feat he had thought impossible since before he left for the Lone Islands.

As soon as the final word left his lips, Lady Haesel's head was resting against his shoulder and her arm was wound through his, offering physical comfort. "Riddle," she mused aloud. "It's not a wizarding name that immediately comes to mind, but it suits you." She lifted her magnificent face to look him in the eye. "You are certainly a riddle."

"Many, before, have said so."

"And you don't look like a 'Tom'," she said, her free hand reaching up and brushing his fringe across his forehead, not that it needed fixing. "Marvolo suits you much better."

"It's a tradition in my mother's family—the Gaunts—to give their children names beginning with the letter 'M'," he whispered. "My mother loved my father so much that she named me after him, even after he abandoned her. I'm the only child of my generation. My uncle and mother are both gone; so is my grandfather, but it seems like the tradition died with them."

"Not necessarily," Lady Haesel countered with a gentle smile. She stroked his cheek. "I'm certain your lady wouldn't mind following that particular tradition if it brings you comfort. Tell me, do you live in the Gaunt residence?"

A low, sardonic laugh escaped Marvolo. "Hardly," he replied when she looked at him questioningly. "I live in my father's family's ancestral home."

Her nose wrinkled. "Its family magic must not be comforting to you, then." It was an innocent mistake to make. She did, after all, believe he was a pureblood. He was a pureblood lord, after all, just not in the natural manner.

Marvolo entwined their fingers together. "It has been stripped of all magic. I had thought that, perhaps, once I began my own family, it could be filled with comforting magic, as it should."

"Ambitious, but I find it suitable, my lord." She looked at him steadily for several minutes, as if she were weighing her next words. "If it isn't an imposition, may I enquire as to your mother's given name?"

"Merope," he answered quietly, almost reverently. Even in the darkness, when the Pleiades were in the night sky, she was nowhere to be found.

"She was named for a star?" Lady Haesel inquired, clearly thinking of the Blacks. Marvolo had seen her with Master Regulus Black, and he knew Lord Sirius Black was her godfather. If he also remembered correctly, his lady's grandmother was a Black.

"Unintentionally, I believe, but yes."

A comfortable silence fell between them once again, the strains of the orchestra playing in the ballroom the only noise, and Marvolo found he could not mind. He could imagine sitting with Haesel in just the same way fifty years from now, and the thought brought him both comfort and happiness. Their children would be grown by then, and Haesel—

A small frown marred his features. Haesel would no longer be on the cusp of womanhood, but a woman approaching seventy. He would always desire her, always cherish her, and yet . . . Marvolo could not bear the thought of her growing old and dying as he remained just as he was. No. Something would have to be done. She was more now than just the future mother of his heirs. She was _his._

"And your family? You and your brother both have names beginning with 'H', but your father and grandfather do not," he said, trying to force his thoughts away from their current path. She would not die. He would not allow her to leave him.

"Indeed," she agreed. "Potter men are named for kings. We women are given names that a Muggle-born would never possess, something regal, but we're not named for queens."

"A pity," Marvolo answered. "I have known queens, and their beauty holds nothing to yours."

Lady Haesel's eyes widened as she blushed. "But there are no—"

Marvolo's lips twisted into a smirk and he leaned forward, whispering into Haesel's ear, "There are a few who are not Muggles if one knows where to look. Remember, I am a diplomat."

"Yes. But—"

"I am a riddle, am I not, my lady?"

"You are, my lord," she answered, bemusement evident in her tone. "To my knowledge, there hasn't been a King of England who had a name beginning with 'M'."

"No," Marvolo agreed, smiling at the line of conversation. A sense of pride and lust welled within him to know that she had been thinking of their future children. He would ensure she greatly enjoyed making them. "There have, however, been three queens."

"I think I prefer the name Matilda to Mary. Maude is also a name never heard amongst the Muggle-born. However, I would happily honor your mother and name our firstborn daughter Merope."

That was so . . . he didn't know what to say. "Thank you," he whispered.

Haesel shivered. "My dad, before he met and fell in love with my mum, was infatuated with a Muggle-born." Her voice was quiet but held no shame. It was simply a fact. "Potters," she continued, her voice at a usual volume, "are permitted to find love before they are seventeen, before marriage dates begin. I hadn't shown any inclination, however, and as a woman of the line, it would be customary—"

"Shh, Haesel," Marvolo whispered, his heart clenching painfully within his chest. "You don't need to explain to me why you're going through the traditions of our people. I knew that before I met you, even though you had called to me. I was ready to win you."

She smiled at him playfully. "With your sniping comments and acerbic wit?"

"Clearly it worked, didn't it?"

"I suppose so." Her beautiful ice-blue eyes focused on his lips before she forced them back up to his eyes.

"Heir Potter?" Marvolo prompted, wondering where the initial confession was going.

Haesel cleared her throat. "The story is an amusing one. Dad became infatuated with a Muggle-born on their first train-ride to Hogwarts. He tried everything to win her but, despite the fact that she was being sponsored, she was hardly a lady. She said several cruel things, to the point where Potter honor could not permit Dad to even consider her, not that he cared to at that point." A smile graced her beautiful lips, making Marvolo want to lean down and kiss her. "Mum was his first marriage date. Grandmama kept it a surprise. Supposedly, he had less than an hour to prepare."

"Well," Marvolo answered, smiling, "Heir Potter obviously made a good impression on Lady Isadore."

"Yes." Her eyes were sparkling now. "Mum had been in love with Dad for years, but he hadn't noticed her. She was a year below him, but in a different House. Mum is also—quiet outside of family circles."

"And what happened to this Muggle-born?" Marvolo asked, leaning his forehead against his lady's.

"Professor Lily Snape is now the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts. I can't imagine you took Muggle Studies, though."

The implication was clear. Haesel believed that he would have been at Hogwarts while someone young enough to be his daughter was a professor. Still, he could answer truthfully. He found himself uneasy at the thought of disclosing exactly who he was to his lady. What if she reacted poorly?

"No, of course not," he replied. "I assume you do not?"

Haesel scoffed. "No. Professor Severus Snape is bad enough—and the two bicker in hallways. I still can't understand _how _the two ever bonded, if I'm entirely honest. I only know, from something Mum once said, that Lady Eileen Snape sponsored Professor Lily Snape when she was at Hogwarts. Lady Eileen was a Prince, but somehow married a Muggle. Now her son isn't entitled to even the title of 'Mr.', although they say he is brilliant at Potions as long as there aren't students underfoot." Haesel sighed. "She doesn't like me and my brother very much. She constantly tried to give me detention my first year, until Professor McGonagall found out. Professor Severus Snape gives detentions to everyone who breathes, though, so I've had a few with him for virtually no reason." She looked up at him through her lashes. "He teaches Defense now, however, and we now have a Professor Slughorn, who came out of retirement for Potions."

Marvolo couldn't help but smile at the name of his favorite professor when at Hogwarts. "Old Sluggy?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

Marvolo couldn't help himself. "Naturally. When you're back at Hogwarts, ask him about me." She would know by then. He was nearly decided. The masquerade had gone on long enough; she was to be his bride. She adored him—loved him, even. She would know his full title, his age, and his utter devotion to her.

"I shall." A smile played on her lips. "Now," she began, changing the subject, "tell me why you're dressed as a fire phoenix."

"Only if I may steal a dance from my lady."

"I'm not yet of age!" she objected, but Marvolo stood, holding his hand out to her. Reluctantly, she took it.

"No one will see," he promised. "And even if they do, they will see a beautiful witch who has _white hair_ dancing with me. Lady Haesel Potter is not even in attendance."

"Tell that to Zach," she quipped, before stepping into his arms.

"Trust me?" he inquired, a smirk on his face.

'Trust you?" she queried, looking directly into his eyes. "Never!"

His smirk widened into a smile. It was time.

"I love you," he murmured. Then, before she could react to his sudden confession, he slithered his right hand to the small of her back. Grasping her hand, he started to dance with her, the beginning of a waltz. She relaxed into his arms. And then he did the unspeakable; he danced out of the antechamber, into the main ballroom, and into the center of the other twirling couples. Whispers suddenly emerged, and Haesel blushed.

"Marvolo?"

"I love you," he whispered again, knowing the words to be true. "And I want the damn world to know it."

He knew he was being overly-possessive, but he was Lord Slytherin, and Potters were permitted to find love before their seventeenth year. He would not wait another week. His reputation and position, as well as her virtue, would save them from any scandal. Haesel was his bride, his love, his _everything_—and now the whole of wizarding society would know it.

* * *

**Note:** For those of you who are writers, you'll understand what I mean when I say that my part of the chapter wrote itself this time. The characters were ridiculously loud in my head! So I hope you all enjoyed the Haesel, Iolanthe, Henry part. :) Thanks again to our anonymous reviewers. We love all our commenters. You rock! Please take a moment to tell us how we did. And if you think we could do something better, tell us that too! - Ell


	9. Part the Eighth

**Part the Eighth**

Haesel ducked her head, wishing she were invisible as the other partygoers stopped waltzing to stare at her and Marvolo with wide eyes and dropped jaws. But those three words, which his magic ratified, "I love you," consumed her. She wouldn't allow anyone to think she was ashamed of being in his arms—not when it was the only place she ever wanted to be. So Haesel took a deep breath and raised her head, locking gazes with him as she desperately tried to pretend they weren't the sole focus of everyone present.

His hand on her waist was firm and unmoving, leading her from one step to the next. Their bodies moved in harmony, scandalously close. There would be furor, scandal, gossip . . . and she found that she couldn't care.

Why should she have to pretend that she didn't love him? Why should she have to lie and imply that any other man would have a chance at her heart? Surely that would be crueler than destroying all of their hopes in one fell swoop.

_I'm done_, her mind whispered. _I'm sick of all the pretense_. Logically, she should be angry with him, should be downright pissed that he had dared to lead her out of the antechamber after asking her to trust him. However, all she felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. The hiding, the sneaking about—it was done. He had stolen the burden from her, not allowing her the chance to object, as she surely would have done. Having the choice taken from her was so much simpler.

Haesel laid her cheek against his chest, over his heart. The clamor in the ballroom rose in volume to an almost deafening pitch. His thumb brushed her waist reassuringly, before he tugged her that much closer. Their fronts were completely plastered together, as if someone had cast a sticking charm on them that they had no desire to cancel.

Every shift of their bodies bespoke a singular truth. Lady Haesel was, obviously, no longer available.

The violins and cellos thrummed with one final note, and then the orchestra fell silent. The lack of music must have shocked the guests, because they all shut up in unison.

Marvolo released her, his hand trailing daringly across her hip as he stepped backward. He bowed to her, quite deeply, and then kissed the back of the hand he still held in his own. "My lady." The verbal affirmation of his claim before others sent a thrill of excitement through her.

Haesel picked up the hem of her dress with her free hand and sank into a respectful curtsey, eyes staring up at him from under her lashes the entire time. "My lord," she acknowledged.

Sharp, precise footsteps echoed through the ballroom. They came from behind her. Marvolo stared over her shoulder, a challenge and defiance written on his face. She knew who it was before he reached her and could only pray to Morgana that he, of all people, would understand.

A tan hand curled around her arm and lifted her to her feet. She reluctantly obeyed the implied command to remove her hand from Marvolo's grasp; their magic sparked painfully when they parted. "Haesel, darling, go with Henry and Zach. It seems your mother and I need to have a conversation with Lord Slytherin."

Lord Slytherin? Marvolo was Lord Slytherin? Why hadn't he—?

"I meant what I said, my lady," Marvolo whispered, alluding to his recent love confession. "Every single word."

_Marvolo_ was Lord Slytherin!

Marvolo was _Lord Slytherin_!

No matter how she repeated it in her mind, it made little sense. He didn't act like a member of the oligarchy. He teased her, flaunted propriety, caressed her with his magic, and found sneaky ways to be exactly where she would be, when she would be there. Marvolo didn't act like a snobbish aristocrat. He acted like, well, Marvolo.

_Maybe that's the point. Maybe he wants to be loved for who he is, not what he is, just like you told Henry and Zach_, her mind whispered. Haesel was vaguely aware of Zach and Henry each taking one of her arms and escorting her from the ballroom, but she was too lost in thought to pay attention to where they were going.

"I'm not crazy, right?" she mumbled. "Dad called Marvolo 'Lord Slytherin', didn't he?"

"Yes, he did," Henry agreed. There was a knowing tone to his voice, as if he had suspected that was the case. But then, he had been the one to suggest Marvolo might be Lord Slytherin days ago. She was the one who had discounted his words and found examples for why that couldn't possibly be true.

"That time in the club, he all but confessed that he came back because he was tempted by rumors of me," she said dazedly, his words floating through her head with deeper meaning now.

"He did."

Could she blame him for that? Could she truly blame him for wanting to investigate a witch who was touted as the most powerful of her generation? His magic was immense and had a lonely flavor to it the first time they had met at the club. It faded over the past week and a half, as they grew closer. She healed something in him, and he shielded her.

But then, wasn't it her fault that he returned to England in the first place?

Haesel could still hear his words from their meeting at Malfoy Manor. '_You called_,' he had said. Her magic had searched him out all the way to his posting and begged for his touch and protection. Was that answer enough?

Regardless of why he had come, or what his intentions had been, or if he had originally planned to use her to create heirs—she now knew the truth.

_I love you_. He had said those three words, honest and heartfelt, and her magic declared that they weren't false.

Chuckling bitterly, Haesel shook her head and gave a rueful smile. "So this was your checkmate, Marvolo. Bravo," she said sarcastically, heart aching. In a twisted way, she couldn't help but applaud his ingenuity. If she had discovered his true identity before he had confessed his love, before she knew of a surety that he cared for her, and not her title or power, she might have turned her back on him. Vowing she would have no other didn't mean she had to have him, after all. Only that she couldn't take anyone except him as her lord.

However, she felt . . . used, almost. He had had so many opportunities to tell her who he was, and he never had. He always avoided the subject, instead of just being upfront with her. Heir Draco, for all his annoying moments of following her about like a pup, was at least forthright in his name and interest, as were the other suitors.

Marvolo had likely read her that first time they met, when he called to her in The Golden Fleece. When she answered, he must've realized she liked mysteries and was curious, and he had used her nature against her.

Marvolo had used her own personality as a weapon against her. _That hurt_. Morgana, the pain in her chest was crippling.

Hands pressed firmly on her shoulders, and Haesel sat down. She blinked twice and then glanced around. Ah, she was in Zach's personal lounge. It was where they usually spent time when she was at his home. Haesel kicked off her shoes, hitched up her skirts, and curled up in the chair, resting her head on the arm. Zach knelt before her and put his hands on her knees.

"So, Lord Slytherin managed to catch you in his net," said Zach.

"So it would seem," she replied.

Henry's fingers tightened on her shoulders as he leaned over the back of the chair, his chin propped on her hair. She wondered if the feathers were tickling his face. "How do you feel about that?" Henry asked.

She tried to shrug nonchalantly. "I know I should probably care and feel betrayed . . ." Even as the words left her mouth, she couldn't deny that she felt like she had been cursed from behind by a friend.

"But you don't," Zach finished for her. He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like I'll believe that blatant lie. Instead of feeling righteous indignation and cursing his bits off, or giving your maiden's kiss to someone else to spite him, or eloping with some dashing wizard, you're curling up in a miserable ball on my chair and saying 'Bravo' with a scary amount of bitterness. There's no chance at all that you'll convince me you don't feel betrayed."

Haesel flinched. Perhaps she could distract them from talking about it as she fought to absorb the blow to her heart. "And who, exactly, am I supposed to give my maiden's kiss to, huh? Kissing Henry would be more than disturbing. Besides, he's already been given a maiden's kiss." The words were jocular, but she didn't immediately discount Zach's suggestions for retribution. True, they were a little over-the-top, but surely a lesser type of revenge was acceptable.

Henry spluttered, but Zach only glanced at him mischievously before focusing back on her. "I'm not that easily distracted, Haesel. I'm sure more than one witch has offered the Golden God a kiss." He winked exaggeratedly. "Besides, you could give it to me."

Tilting her head, Haesel observed her best friend. The thought had crossed her mind a few times over the years. "Would you truly want it?" she asked. He was her best friend, and kissing him wouldn't be the worst decision she'd ever made; Zach had never betrayed her, which was something Marvolo couldn't honestly say now.

_I love you._

"Haesel!" It seemed she was making a habit of scandalizing her brother.

"Silence, Henry. This doesn't concern you," she admonished. This was between her and Zach. _And Marvolo_, her mind added.

Zach's eyes bore into her, as if weighing whether or not she wanted the truth. It was an absent gesture, she knew, because he never offered her anything but the truth. He was unfailingly honest—to the point of discourtesy, on occasion. Whereas Marvolo apparently avoided the truth unless he thought it would aid him. She winced. All right, so that was a little harsh. "Yes, but not because I'm in love with you. I'm not."

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "Then why would you want it?" Haesel asked.

His hands clenched on her knees, and his eyes burned with various emotions that darted too quickly for her to identify. "Because even if he loves you, that bastard lied to you, Haesel! He proved he was a diplomat by skipping around the issue and letting you draw false assumptions. He lied. To you."

She couldn't disagree with anything Zach had just said. Marvolo had lied to her; a lie of omission was still a lie. And Merlin, her chest hurt terribly.

"You've chosen him, haven't you?" Zach demanded.

Haesel nodded, remembering the vow she had made before she learned his identity. "I have."

"And both of your magics acknowledge that, right?" He leaned forward a little, lips curled in a smirk.

"Yes, of course," she replied. Their magics had been entwined almost constantly over the past few days. She could feel him even when they were on separate sides of the country, as he had felt her since she was just a young girl getting her wand.

The smirk on Zach's face was truly wicked, his magic crackling with devilish delight. "Then let me kiss you, Haesel. Let him know that you don't appreciate being lied to. Grant me your first kiss."

"Absolutely not!" Henry said, glaring at Zach with disdain. "She'll be betrothed to you."

"Not if he kisses me," Haesel corrected. She closed her eyes and considered Zach's offer, ignoring the tight squeeze of Henry's hands. If Zach kissed her, it wouldn't count as her maiden's kiss; that had to be initiated by her. She could, realistically, give Zach her first kiss without it having any profound magical effect—except for the minor backlash and severe jealously Marvolo was sure to feel.

The honorable part of her said she should save her first kiss for Marvolo. Unfortunately, for it, the rest of her was still upset that Marvolo had been lying to her. His love meant a great deal, and helped assuage the feeling of betrayal, but not all of it. This would be a non-damaging and minor way to show Marvolo how that felt. She needed him to understand that she would expect full honesty from her lord, and this would be a quick and brutal method to achieve that goal.

She would answer him in kind: a betrayal for a betrayal.

Decision made, Haesel propped her chin on one hand. "Very well, Zach. You may kiss me."

"You're crazy!" Henry snapped as he stomped a few steps away. "He's going to be so angry, Haesel. Livid, even. Just the thought of Iolanthe kissing someone else makes me homicidal."

"Ah, the littlest Malfoy. Good catch," Zach teased, a smug smile on his face. "I think your children will be the golden godlings." He guffawed, and Haesel couldn't help but join in at the fiery blush that covered Henry's face.

"You two make me so—urgh!"

"My kiss, Zach?" Haesel demanded imperiously.

Still chuckling, he smiled at her. "But of course, Princess." He reached forward and trailed his fingers down her cheek, before cupping her face gently.

"Just so you know, I'm telling Lord Slytherin I was against this!" Henry called before turning his back on them.

"Close your eyes, Haesel." She did, feeling anticipation and trepidation. She still had time to back out, but her hurt pride wouldn't let her. If they didn't start off their bonded life as equals, it would fall apart, despite their compatibility. She had to make Marvolo _understand_. By bonding with him, she would be giving him _everything_ . . . and she couldn't spend her entire life waiting for another betrayal.

Zach's lips were soft, moist, and warm. She felt safe, cared for, and content. There were no fireworks, or passion, or desire, but for a first kiss, it left a good impression. Kissing wasn't something to fear.

When he leaned back, her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks before she stared at him. The smile on Zach's face was gentle and caring, but only that of a dear friend.

Marvolo's magic, which had been tangling with her own as it usually did, had fallen still the moment Zach's lips touched hers. She wondered if he were standing somewhere, mouth hanging open, a sentence having died on his tongue as he felt it.

A slight headache began to form, and a horrid, mischievous thought appeared. She embraced it whole-heartedly. "Zach."

"Yes?" he asked, focused entirely on her.

"Would you be a dear and brush my hair? The weight of all the baubles is giving me a headache." She waved her wand and canceled the charm that had turned it white, leaving gleaming ebony hair in its place.

Henry groaned behind her and muttered, "Bad idea, Sis. Worse than your last one."

Zach hesitated, as if the thought of not only seeing, but touching and brushing her hair, was almost too improper and intimate. "You're sure?" he asked carefully.

"Quite," Haesel replied. Marvolo's magic was still silent, but this would, without a doubt, garner an intense reaction from him. She placed one hand over her aching chest and closed her eyes.

Chuckling roughly, Zach summoned his hairbrush into the room from an adjoining bathroom. "You are a cruel woman. Remind me to never piss you off," he said before starting to gently tug the feathers and pearls from her hair. "Absolutely stunning, Haesel."

"Thank you, Zach." She appreciated the compliment a great deal. Her hair was, after all, her crowning glory. She had seen Marvolo staring appreciatively at her hair several times since they had met, and she knew he would loathe the thought of another wizard brushing it.

When it tumbled down like an obsidian waterfall, and Zach buried his hands in it, Marvolo's magic went wildly crazy.

_You lied to me_, her magic accused. _You made me feel like this_.

* * *

Marvolo couldn't help but smirk as he was led from the dance floor. Haesel—his darling, cunning, ambitious, honorable, beautiful Haesel—was as good as his. No marriage dates, no dancing with other wizards, even ones related to her, nothing. She was his—mind, body, heart, and soul.

And he was hers. Utterly and completely.

He walked beside Charlus; his old school chum was technically leading, but Marvolo, as Lord Slytherin, had seniority. Behind them walked Lady Potter and behind her, both Heir Potter and Lady Isadore. It seemed a full Potter-style interrogation was in order. The only person missing was Master Henry, who had gone off with his sister.

When they finally reached a study, Marvolo swept imperiously through the doors, turning when he reached the desk, pressing his hands casually to the front of it so he was leaning backward. He remembered adopting a similar pose when he first came face to face with his future bride.

Charlus sighed as he entered the room, the Potters making up a semi-circle around him. An old memory stirred in Marvolo's consciousness. Decades ago, his petty 'followers' had done the same when he was still a student at Hogwarts. But he had taken a different path since then, one that had led him to here, to this moment . . . to _Haesel_.

"So. You just had to stake a claim, didn't you?" James Potter's form was barely restrained as he glared at Marvolo.

"Hush, darling," Isadore responded, wrapping her arm through her husband's. He seemed to almost immediately deflate.

The two were a striking pair. She was petite, with a slim figure and hair so blonde it could almost be white. She was blonder and fairer of skin than any Malfoy could hope to be, belying her heritage as a Vaisey. Her eyes, though, were intelligent and polite and entirely private, and the same beautiful ice-blue shade as Haesel's.

Haesel . . . _his _Haesel . . .

"Quite," Charlus claimed as he walked over to a sideboard and poured himself a generous amount of Firewhisky. He offered a glass to Marvolo who demurred silently with a movement of his hand. Charlus only sighed before taking a healthy dose of his own. "Well, it appears Haesel is a Potter through and through, although sometimes I wish it had skipped two generations instead of merely the one."

"Charlus," Dorea sighed quietly.

Marvolo supposed Charlus was referring to Heir Potter's infamous pursuit of a Mudblood, which had been fortunately unsuccessful. The Potters were known for getting what they wanted. However, just by looking at Heir Potter, Marvolo couldn't say he looked disappointed with his lot in life. Quite the reverse, in fact.

"Right," Charlus said, coming to face Marvolo. "First things first. Obviously there has been a blatant declaration. There's nothing for it but bonding, I suppose, if my granddaughter was not coerced."

"Obviously," Marvolo sneered. "You have my word," he added lazily as an afterthought, "as a lord."

Charlus seemed slightly relieved at that. "There are some miracles. However, I have a few questions."

"If I may?" James interrupted, his hand now curling over his wife's. He was dressed as the knight from _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and his lady as the witch Amata. A fitting costume, Marvolo had to admit.

James cleared his throat. "Have you ever been alone with my daughter?" he inquired, steel in his hazel gaze.

"No," Marvolo answered succinctly. Thankfully, he could answer that honestly; a 'yes' might've resulted in a duel for Haesel's honor. "We have always been in public, either at The Golden Fleece or at Malfoy Manor."

"So there have been chaperones." He looked steadily at Marvolo.

"Always witnesses in public. Appointed chaperones were not always present, but we were in clear sight in public areas."

James scoffed, tossing his head of messy black hair. "So, in Slytherin cunning, there were no closed doors and, while people could see you if they looked, you were assured privacy."

Marvolo didn't deem to respond to the statement.

"I worry," Isadore murmured quietly after several long, tense moments. "I know that we afforded you Haesel's first marriage date out of friendship and respect, but you are the age of her grandfather. You have not aged a day. Will you, to your knowledge, have a normal wizarding lifespan despite this and, if so, will you tire of my daughter in a few decades? Oris your youth the product of some type of longevity that perhaps will allow you to remain at my daughter's side as you should?"

Marvolo was surprised at the question. If he remembered correctly, Isadore Vaisey had been in Ravenclaw and it clearly showed. "I cannot say for certain," he hedged after a moment. "But I assure you, whatever the case, I will remain devoted to your daughter." He took a deep breath. "She is my equal." It was the closest he could come to admitting to anyone but his lady that he loved her. "She will want for absolutely nothing."

Isadore nodded sagely, a satisfied smile on her face.

"I refuse to give up the ball," Dorea finally said, looking between her husband and Marvolo. "We've spent too much time planning it."

"That can be remedied, my dear," Charlus replied kindly. "If Lord Slytherin does not object, then it can easily become an engagement ball. There will be no loss to Potter honor."

Potter honor. How plebian. Marvolo would have sneered if the situation weren't so serious.

"At least the invitations are enchanted," Dorea muttered. "It will take but a moment to have all of the invitations changed by noon tomorrow."

"I think a statement, though, is in order for the _Daily Prophet_, and then of course there are the settlements." Charlus was once again looking grave and every one of his years.

"Shall I—?" Marvolo inquired. Normally he hated being secondary in such an important conversation, but everything of import was already decided. The Potters simply needed the formalities. He had everything he wanted.

"No thank you, Lord Slytherin. It shall come from our House," Charlus answered.

"Then I would prefer to return to my lady and perhaps claim a dance," Marvolo stated simply.

James's shoulders tensed, but nothing was said against the idea.

Marvolo swept out of the room and it was then, at the edge of the ballroom, that he felt it: a frisson of magic. _You betrayed me. You didn't tell me_.

_No,_ his magic cried back, and he made his way through the ballroom, Charlus at his side in a showing of solidarity. Marvolo kept his breathing in check, his face impassive so as not to show his—his—

Then he felt it. The kiss. Not a maiden's kiss that would break the bond that would form between them, but one not forcefully stolen. A kiss, a statement of anger, a betrayal for a betrayal . . . a painful and yet gloriously Slytherin tactic.

Marvolo could not help the smile that teased the corners of his lips.

If he had had any doubt that Haesel was his equal, it was immediately swept away. Yes, he wanted her first kiss, but he had her love, her devotion, and he would have her hand, and her body and her soul. He had kissed others before: Islanders, Muggles and Mudbloods meant only for practice or a spout of entertainment, the occasional pureblood lady when he was younger and they thought, stupidly, that giving him their maiden's kiss would make them Lady Slytherin.

No . . . only a woman capable of allowing another to kiss her after such a public pronouncement of their attachment was worthy of the title, of him, of his _love_, and she was waiting for him. She was _angry_ with him.

However, as appreciative as he was of her cunning, of her imagination, of her sheer ability to hurt him, that kiss had belonged to him—not to that Smith boy who had obviously taken it. He was the only one in the room other than Haesel's brother.

A frisson of pure hatred sped through his heart. He would kill the boy unless Haesel begged him otherwise. And she would have to beg. The more the betrayal set in, the more his blood demanded retribution.

They came to a door and Marvolo paused. He took a deep breath to calm his fraying emotions. How could one slip of a girl, even though he loved her, have so much power over him?

"If I may have a minute, I believe that my betrothed might be a little _annoyed_ regarding my title." It was the understatement of his life, but a necessary one. Marvolo looked at Charlus who nodded his head in assent. Dorea, James, and Isadore had clearly stayed in the ballroom instead of following them through it.

Marvolo opened the door to the most deliciously vindictive sight, which made his cunning mind sing in appreciation as his intestines curdled in pure, unadulterated possessiveness. His beautiful bride-to-be had released her hair from its charm and its bindings so that it fell in black waves around her face; and that stupid, pompous boy was brushing it. Brushing it! Only a family member or a betrothed had such a right; she had given it to a mere friend, in addition to not protesting a kiss. How dare she dishonor their love so soon after the declaration of it—not only between them, but before the whole world!

Master Henry was looking on in utter horror and perplexity, though Marvolo hardly noticed

What had happened quickly became apparent.

"Darling," he said, his tone full of false joy, "your point is well taken."

"Is it?" Lady Haesel asked, arching a brow. Her ice-blue eyes were cold, unfeeling.

Zach didn't look him in the eye, but a smirk curled his lips. He also continued to brush her hair. Jealousy rankled Marvolo's nerves.

Marvolo stepped forward and slid his hand around the whelp's wrist. "I believe that is my privilege. You have stolen a kiss already," he murmured, the threat clear in his voice. "Unless you wish to know the full wrath of the Houses of Slytherin, Peverell, and Gaunt?"

A small gasp escaped from his lady's lips as he named all of his titles. _There_, Marvolo could not help but think, _see how I am to raise you and why I wanted your love instead of just another witch after my prestigious position._

Zach paused, a hint of fear in the turn of his lips, and then handed the brush to Marvolo, who instantly stood behind Lady Haesel and continued the ministrations. Despite his anger, he was gentle. This was his betrothed, his love; he would never hurt her—no matter how his magic roiled at her infuriating sense of Gryffindor justice.

"I did not give you leave, my lord," she stated angrily, not turning to look at him.

Marvolo smirked. "You did when you declared me your lord but twenty minutes ago, and with your actions since. We are also now formally, though privately, engaged. Would you prefer a Yule bonding or would you like to wait until after your graduation?" His tone had turned mocking at the innocence of the subject, but his message was clear: _Do not test me._

Haesel spun to face him. "You're Lord Slytherin!"

"I did tell you I was a diplomat," he countered, continuing to brush her hair gently. The smoothness of it was pure heaven to his fingers and he could not wait until their first private kiss, when he could sink his hands into it completely and pull her luscious lips toward his. She would kiss him willingly; it would be her maiden's kiss. At least that had not been stolen from him! He would devour her very soul—if he had to—in that kiss to make his point.

"You lied by omission." Her eyes were cold and yet so gloriously full of indignation that he couldn't help but lean forward and place a kiss on her nose. The implication was obvious. _You are mine. Never forget it._ "Heir Smith, I suggest you leave us. Immediately, if you do not wish to be cursed given your recent transgressions against the Houses of Slytherin, Peverell, and Gaunt." Master Henry would have to stay for chaperoning purposes, but that dreadful whelp wasn't needed.

There was a long pause. "No."

Marvolo's gaze snapped to him, although his face did not move at all. "Hufflepuff, am I correct? How quaint." He returned his gaze to Haesel, a silent command in his eyes. She _would_ obey him.

Her magic writhed in anger but, after a moment, she looked toward Zach. "I have everything handled, and Henry is here," she said. "I need a moment alone—or as alone as possible—with my betrothed."

Zach sighed and, after a long considering glance at Haesel, turned and left the room. The door snicked closed behind him.

"I have never lied to you and you know me better than _anyone_," Marvolo began, his voice cold and harsh, yet quiet, so that Master Henry could not overhear too much.

"You _hurt_ me." Haesel was stubborn to a fault.

"You hurt _me_," he responded. "I did nothing but love you and declare it to the world."

"You didn't tell me—"

"You let him kiss you!" Marvolo picked up his wand and cast a quick silencing charm. It wouldn't do for them to be overheard. This was a private matter, and not for public consumption.

"Marvolo, you _hurt me._"

"You gave him what was mine."

"What was yours?" she fired back, wrenching her hair from his hands. "What was yours, _Lord Slytherin?_ I am not something to be owned."

He grasped her wrist firmly and gently, turning her so that she was now facing him. "You called for me. You sought _me _out. I was content before—"

Haesel reeled back as if he had just slapped her. "Then you should have stayed wherever it is you were sent, Ambassador Riddle." Her eyes were now so hard they were almost unrecognizable.

"I do not _wish_ to be content!" he snapped, the admission torn from him by his riotous emotions. Then, before he knew what was happening, she was in his arms. She kissed him passionately, angrily, her hands tugging at his collar so that he was closer to her, although the back of the settee separated them.

Marvolo was only startled for a moment before he was pulling her closer, his hands buried in her luxurious hair. He pillaged her sweet lips in a harsh and possessive kiss that could leave her in no doubt of his intentions toward her.

At the sound of a clearing throat, Haesel wrenched herself away from him, but her eyes held his gaze steadily as she heaved for breath. Her rising and falling chest was a temptation he did not need, but a delight nonetheless. "Tell me it wasn't all a lie," she all but whimpered, vulnerability circling her.

"I never lied."

Haesel glanced toward her brother, but Marvolo never let his gaze leave her beautiful face. The paint on her face was smudged and her lips were swollen from his harsh and demanding kiss, but she was utterly breathtaking in her disheveled state.

"If you betray me _ever again_—" she finally warned, her blue eyes looking into his dark ones.

"I know." Marvolo's hands combed through her curls, and he loved the intimacy of it. "I never want to feel that," he admitted, the words sticking in his throat, "ever again. I _love _you. I think I've loved you from the first, back when I didn't know your name. Is it wrong to have wished for you to love me in the same way? The way my mother loved my father? She didn't care what he was—that he was—" Marvolo swallowed painfully and then pulled Haesel into a softer and yet still possessive kiss that was over almost as soon as it had started.

Haesel was dazed. After a long pause, she pulled fully away and walked to the other side of the room (outside the silencing charm), running her hands over her gown. "Henry, a moment."

Henry looked at her, scandalized. "Not after _that_!"

"Henry!" she snapped. "I gave you the bride of your dreams earlier this evening when she was nearly out of your grasp. Repay me the same courtesy for a few minutes. I swear that I'll stay on this side of the room and that Lord Slytherin will not move from his spot." She glanced at Marvolo imploringly and he nodded in quiet agreement.

"Sis—"

"Please." It was only a whisper, and yet her magic reverberated with the plea.

Sighing, Henry stood and exited into what appeared to be another sitting room or antechamber. They were not given full privacy, but just enough.

Haesel was turned, facing the wall. "Your father?" she murmured in question, picking up the thread of their conversation.

Marvolo sighed. He could leave nothing out by omission—he realized this now. This stunning witch was his equal and she had the power to hurt him. He would never give her reason to again.

"He was a handsome Muggle," he confessed.

Haesel turned, her face startled at the admission, her shoulders tense.

"He married my mother," Marvolo continued quietly, "and then claimed she had bewitched him when he grew—bored of her, as he always did from what I can tell. When I was growing up in a Muggle orphanage, I used to dream he would come and take me away, but Dumbledore did instead. Then I thought I was just a Muggle-born until I learned . . . I purged his tainted blood from my veins when I was your age—after his death. I am told, however, that I still look remarkably like him, although my eyes darkened and my hair gained an auburn sheen."

Haesel remained quiet, her face impassive, as if she had closed herself off to him completely.

"Are you disgusted with me now?" he asked her bitterly, his eyes raking over her possessively. "I will not let you go, my lady. You _loved _me but a moment ago, and I swear by Merlin and Morgana that I will _make _you love me again." Bitterness coiled within him like a snake as he watched her.

She stood there for several endless moments, as if struggling, before sinking to her knees in exhaustion. "I have not stopped loving you, my lord," she whispered. "Is that why our future home is magicless?" Her magic unraveled itself, reaching out to him in comfort, although she could not move away from that side of the room because of her promise to her brother.

She still loved him? She still loved him! Thank Merlin and Morgana!

"Yes," he admitted cautiously. "Gaunt magic is putrid and—"

"Then we shall not live there. I shall not have our children know anything but love." A shaky smile spread across her face. "You never need to hide yourself from me, Marvolo. Not anymore."

He smiled back at her, knowing what a gift she was giving to him. Forgiveness was not easily earned, especially from a Potter. It was priceless. "I cannot bear to wait longer than Yule to make you my bride."

She hummed softly to herself and stared up at him. "I've always wanted a winter wedding. July is far too overrated, I think."

Marvolo laughed, knowing that pureblood witches often married just after their graduation. He was grateful she didn't want the same. A year without her bound to him would be torture, plain and simple. And after that kiss she had given him, his desire to claim her was stronger than ever.

"It is decided then."

Haesel stood up and, peering in a mirror on the wall, banished the paint from her face to leave it smooth and unmarred, her disguise now mostly gone. "Henry!" she called. At the sight of her brother, she moved back to the settee.

"Your coming of age gala will become our engagement ball if you have no objections," Marvolo offered as he resumed brushing her hair. It was a privilege he would never take for granted.

"No, none," she responded, relaxing further into his touch. There were several moments of silence before she uttered with a quiet whisper, "I love you, Marvolo, Lord Slytherin."

Marvolo sighed in delight. "My Lady Slytherin." Nothing else needed to be said. She would understand, and the hum of her magic showed that she did.

"Henry, may I tell him your news?" she inquired, turning to her brother, who was astutely looking toward them but not at them.

Master Henry took a deep breath and then nodded. "I'm soon to be betrothed to Lady Iolanthe Malfoy, Lord Slytherin."

"May I offer my congratulations, Master Potter," he responded formally, inclining his head. "An admirable choice." At a slight hesitation in Haesel's magic, belying her wariness, he added, "In private, you may have leave to call me Lord Marvolo as we are to be brothers-in-law." It was too soon for any more familiarity.

Haesel's magic fluttered in appreciation.

"Then, Lord Marvolo, you may address me as Henry." The message was clear, and Marvolo inclined his head again.

The three remained in silence for several minutes. Marvolo conjured elaborate clips—that he had hidden in his bureau at Riddle Manor for future courtship gifts—that he slid into her hair to place it into a low, elegant, and comfortable twist. He had never done such for a lady or woman before. With a murmured entreaty, Haesel stood, taking his hand, and the two walked out of the room, Henry following three steps behind them.

"I should be at Malfoy Manor tomorrow afternoon to fly with Lady Rana," Haesel informed him just before they entered the ballroom.

Marvolo led her out to wide speculation and swept her onto the dance floor. She now looked more herself, and yet no less radiant than when he had first laid eyes on her earlier that morning. "Is that an invitation, my lady?"

Haesel smiled coyly in response.

To Malfoy Manor, then, Marvolo would go. Perhaps this time he could share a mount with his lady instead of merely lifting her into the saddle. The thought warmed him, as did her loving countenance. Marvolo lost himself in her magic and her presence, realizing why his mother, if she had felt anything like this, may have given his dreadful father a love potion.

* * *

**Note:** I'm so happy right now, that nothing you could say could ruin my mood. Not today. Love it? Hate it? Well, you read it. That's enough for me today. Again, as always, my gratitude goes out to our anonymous reviewers and those who have PMs turned off. I read every single review. Love you! -Ell


	10. Part the Ninth

**Part the Ninth**

Closing her bedroom door behind her late the next morning, Haesel stalked the distance to her brother's chambers and slipped inside without knocking. He was sitting before the unlit fireplace, hands clenching the tunic he wore. "What if Granddad doesn't approve?"

Haesel snorted and walked over, setting her open palms on his shoulders. "He'll approve."

"But what if—?"

"How long do you plan to play this game, Henry?" asked Haesel as she skirted around him, her hands now on her hips. Henry rarely showed vulnerability like this, but she could understand why he was right now. He had liked Iolanthe since they had met when he was nine and she was just a little blonde fairy twirling in circles on the lawn by the pond. Even Haesel had been enchanted by the littlest Malfoy. Now that he thought he had her, losing her would destroy something in him.

"What if Granddad . . . ?"

Sighing, Haesel crouched down and knelt on the floor. Right now was for Henry; she'd deal with her own fears and worries later. She wrapped her arms around her brother and ruffled his hair. "Henry, what's really the matter? You know Grandpapa would never refuse your suit, seeing as she's given you her maiden's kiss; it would be entirely dishonorable and reflect poorly on our family."

"I—" His hands grabbed at her robes and pulled her closer. His voice was thick, as if tears were threatening to overcome him. She couldn't remember the last time Henry had cried. "Iolanthe is twelve, Haesel. What if she comes to regret giving me her maiden's kiss? She's it for me; I know that well. But what if I'm only a passing fancy for her? What if she comes to regret pledging herself to me? I couldn't bear that, Sis."

"That's what this is about?" Haesel shook her head and chuckled. If only her problem with Marvolo was that simple. "You don't have to worry about that, Henry," she replied, remembering Iolanthe's admission of being a Matchmaker and the potential that existed between her and Henry.

He pulled away and stared up at her with pleading eyes. "How can you be sure?"

"I gave my word to keep her secret," Haesel said. When Henry ducked his head, she hooked her hand under his chin and lifted it back up. "However, I can freely give you my word as a Potter that Iolanthe will never willingly change her mind or heart about you, Henry. The strength of your bond will be akin to Mum and Dad's." _A soul-bond_, went unspoken, but his dropped jaw informed her that he had caught the implication.

Hope dawned across his face. "So she won't change her mind? I can keep her?"

Laughing, Haesel ruffled his hair and grinned at him. "Yes, Henry, you can keep her. Another future Potter Lord managed to capture the bride of his dreams."

Henry smiled cockily, all traces of possible tears gone. "Of course I did. I think it's part of the family magic. I've never heard of a Potter—male or female—not bonding for love."

Standing, Haesel almost flinched as she offered her brother a hand and then pulled him to his feet. "Maybe one of our ancestors overdosed on Felix Felicis, bonded in the Ancient Ways under the Olde Magick, and created an heir at the same time; the luck could've been passed down in love."

_And maybe betrayal was passed down in the Riddle line_, she thought viciously, before squeezing her eyes shut. She had to stop doing this to herself, to them. It wasn't like Marvolo had lied about being bonded or something; he just hadn't told her his titles. And she had forgiven him, now that she was beginning to understand him better. He was the most powerful wizard alive and yet he had been abandoned before he was born simply because of _what _he was, not _who_ he was.

Henry snorted and gave her a one-armed hug, guiding her out of his room. "Yes, that does sound like something one of our ancestors would've done. After all, we're reckless in the face of true love."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"Mmhmm." Henry smirked wickedly. "Just be grateful your diplomat only danced you onto a ballroom floor instead of absconding with you somewhere to bond in the Ancient Ways."

Haesel's cheeks burned as she half-heartedly punched her brother, lacking the energy to entertain the thought or invent a suitable comeback. She had slept very poorly, her mind focusing on the man she loved and the hardships he had endured. "I would never allow that! Besides, Dad, Grandpapa, and you would have arrived and killed him before he could try anything." But if he hadn't danced her into the ballroom, she might still be living in blissful ignorance.

But she did not want ignorance. She wanted Marvolo, and he had given her that precious gift during their row the evening before.

"We would have tried, but Marvolo has a fearsome amount of power, Sis," he said solemnly, arm tightening around her. "I wouldn't doubt our ability to save you from anyone else . . . but he worries me."

"You'll never have to worry about that," she insisted, hating the thought of her family dueling with Marvolo; even with the lie of omission, she loved all of them, and just wanted everyone to get along. If she were ever forced to choose, though—"I would help you fight." The words were almost inaudible and made Henry come to an abrupt stop.

"Are you serious?" His hazel eyes burned down at her in a manner she had seldom seen in her life, from either her brother or her father.

"I am Haesel Potter, Henry. I was born that way under Magic's blessing. Regardless of any emotions I may feel for others, I will always be a Potter first and foremost. My title may change once I bond, but my magic and bloodlines and honor won't. Above everything, my loyalty will always be to our family. If Marvolo ever sought to harm any of you"—she trembled at the mere thought of such a nightmare becoming reality—"I would fight on your side."

Henry pressed their foreheads together. "Then I will ensure that you never have to fight against him on our account."

A sob escaped her, unaccompanied by tears. "I would be most grateful for that," she whispered. She didn't even want to imagine a scenario in which she would have to stand beside her family and face off against Marvolo, wand brandished with the intent to protect her family and harm her love.

Henry enfolded her against his chest and set his chin on the top of her head. "Look at us, falling apart over love. You'd think we'd be happy about it, but we're acting like fainting maidens."

"Love is scary," Haesel breathed as she clung to her brother. "The possibility of losing someone who completes you so utterly is terrifying. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth the risk." She stepped backward and then beamed at her brother. "But then I remember his sarcastic smirks and taunting barbs and I wonder how I ever survived without him."

Chuckling, Henry started down the hall again. "I'm sure Zach helped out there."

Haesel tossed her head back and laughed, recalling the countless times Zach had said something impolite, impolitic, or improper in her presence. He had helped ground her all these years, subtly reminding her that she was more than a title—she was a person with thoughts and emotions and dreams of her own. "He did. That he certainly did."

They stopped before the double doors that marked the entrance to their grandfather's study. It wasn't a place she visited often, because legal matters rarely involved her; her father usually handled such things. The sound of Haesel's fist meeting the wood echoed down the hall.

"Come."

Haesel twisted the lion's head doorknob and pushed open the right door. A quick glance showed that her grandfather, grandmother, father, and mother were all inside—most likely discussing her engagement ball and the eventual bonding between her and _Lord Slytherin_.

"Yes?" Charlus asked.

Haesel's lips twitched as a naughty idea came to mind. How long had it been since she last played a prank on Henry? Much too long, surely. She put a hand on her brother's back and shoved him into the study, snickering as he stumbled two steps forward with fiery cheeks. "Henry here has been kissing virgin maidens, and went and got himself engaged. Iolanthe's hair was _down_"—her mother and grandmother gasped—"and he wouldn't stop staring at it, even when she tried to hide behind my vanity. You've raised a total rake, Dad. I'm quite impressed." Her father and grandfather were goggling at Henry as he spluttered incoherently. "You might want to go pacify Lord Malfoy before he challenges Henry to a duel to the death over his daughter's honor. She is, after all, only twelve."

Henry spun around and pointed at her, arm shaking. "That's not how it happened at all!"

"So you don't deny kissing Iolanthe Malfoy?" Isadore asked.

"W-well, no."

"And her hair wasn't down?" Dorea inquired, a grin on her face as she stared at him.

Henry blinked as an enormous grin spread his lips. "Oh, it most certainly was."

"Brilliant! Another Potter wins the woman of his dreams," James declared as he stood up and patted his son on the back. "I recognize that look. I wore it the first night I waltzed with your mother. I call it 'Stupid in Love'." He waved an arm grandly.

Charlus stared at Haesel, his chin propped on his hands and a knowing look on his face. "The truth, my dear?"

"Henry—" Haesel almost swallowed her tongue when she felt Neville's magic appear in the manor. Merlin and Morgana, he must've been at the ball last night, and she hadn't even noticed. Worse, she hadn't told him she was being courted. Two weeks ago, Neville—her dear godbrother—had probably thought his suit for her hand would be almost uncontested. And then Marvolo had flaunted their relationship last night in front of the crème de la crème of pureblood society. Additionally, she knew her mother had already changed the invitations to state it would be an engagement ball, not a coming of age gala. "It was all very proper. I chaperoned. Henry didn't touch her," she rasped. "Excuse me, I have to go right now."

"Haesel?"

"What's wrong, honey?"

"Are you all right, darling?"

She hugged her waist and muttered. "Not now. Just—I have something I have to take care of."

Haesel hurried from the study and toward the parlor that guests who were welcome in the manor could freely Apparate into. It took her less than a minute to reach it. Her chest heaved with ragged breathing as she leaned against the wall and stared at her godbrother. Neville was tall and fit. His blond hair wasn't smoothly combed like normal, and his brown eyes shone with agony. He was pacing across the Persian rug, his boots clomping loudly with each step.

"Is it true, then?" He stopped, his back to her, hands balled. "You're to marry Lord Slytherin?"

The godsibling bond between them writhed. "Yes," she choked out. The pain of her confession ricocheted down the bond, slapping her across the face.

"Of your own free will?" he asked. She wondered if that was what an Inferius would sound like: dead.

For an irrational moment, Haesel considered lying to him. However, she wouldn't dishonor Marvolo or the choice she had knowingly made, especially when it wouldn't lessen Neville's suffering. "I love him," she whispered. And it was true, despite Marvolo's earlier betrayal. She loved him and only him, the ambassador, the pureblood lord, and the half-blood orphan.

The bond between them stretched, as if it sought to snap itself and end the pain. "I love you, Haesel." Neville turned toward her, tears streaming down his face, desperation pouring off him. "I've loved you for years. All I want is for you to be my wife. I'd never hurt you. I'd treat you well. You must know that."

Tears dripped from her eyes, and she didn't attempt to stem them. Neville deserved her tears, as few people did. "I k-know."

Neville stepped closer and cupped her cheeks, before running his hands up into her hair. "I would've known if you gave him your maiden's kiss, Haesel. You haven't."

Haesel almost flinched. She hadn't realized her bond with Neville was so frail that he hadn't felt her gift Marvolo with her maiden's kiss the night before. Unless . . . maybe he had felt it, and was just in denial of what it meant.

He leaned down and rubbed his nose along hers. "Please, Haesel. _Please_. I know I have no right to ask, but . . . Merlin, I want it."

Haesel started hiccupping through her sobs, arms wrapped protectively around herself. Neville was everything good and right in the world. He loved her so much that she could almost choke on it, and he would do his utmost to make her happy forever. He would never treat her ill, would respect her, and so much more. In his eyes, one kiss was all it would take to make his dreams come true. A maiden's kiss would save him from her and the vicious pull her magic created between them.

But in doing so, she would lose Marvolo. Even if she still had yet to give her maiden's kiss—which she didn't—just this once, Haesel wanted to be selfish. Just this once, she needed to put her own happiness before a loved one's.

The hope in his eyes when she leaned up felt like a Bludger to the stomach. He grinned at her, and then closed his eyes. Face wet with remorse, Haesel turned her head and kissed his cheek. "Morgana, Neville, I'm so sorry." She choked on the words and ripped herself from his arms. As she spun on her heel and Disapparated, she couldn't get the look of betrayal on his face, or the feel of betrayal in his magic, out of her mind.

She collapsed on the floor of a parlor in Black Manor, face buried in her hands as she sobbed hysterically. How could she have hurt him like that? How?

"Haesel! Haesel, what's wrong?" Hands shook her shoulders, but she didn't respond.

She had broken his heart, and she hadn't even been able to do it privately first. She had bloody well waltzed with Marvolo, plastered against him, in front of hundreds of witnesses.

"Dad! Dad!"

And the hope that radiated from Neville when she had leaned up . . . as if she would grant his desperate request and offer him her maiden's kiss—to make all of his dreams a reality. She was a cruel monster. How could she have done that to him? She had thought that a kiss would be better than none, but now—

Strong arms lifted her into the air, and then she was being settled in someone's lap. Haesel pulled the familiar magic around herself and burrowed against his chest. He, of all people, would be able to understand her. He knew what it was like to shatter someone's heart into pieces so minute that nothing would ever be able to reassemble them.

"Siri!"

After all, he had called off his engagement to Lady Leanne McLaggen less than a month before the wedding, after postponing it for years, because he had fallen in love with Elara Selwyn. Elara had just turned sixteen, and Uncle Sirius was twenty-two at the time; he had been courting Lady Leanne for five years. It was the scandal of the decade.

"Tell me what happened, Haesel," Sirius said, voice commanding and without reprieve.

Haesel's hands scrabbled at his robes. "Siri! He—"

"He? Who is 'he', and what did he do?" There was an undercurrent to her godfather's voice that bespoke endless suffering.

"Dad, I just Floo-called the manor, and Uncle James said they're all safe. Haesel apparently fled the study saying she had to do something, and none of them have seen her since. But Uncle James said that was only about fifteen minutes ago," Leo said hurriedly.

"You're sure they're all right?" Sirius demanded.

"Yes, Dad. Absolutely sure," Leo replied.

Sirius breathed a sigh of relief against her hair, and then held her more tightly, his hands running up and down her back in comforting motions. "I'll handle this. Go have lunch with your mother, brother, and sisters. Tell her I'll miss it."

"Right. Of course. Is she going to be okay?" asked Leo.

"I c-couldn't—and he looked _so_—"

"Shh," Sirius murmured against her hair. "Shh." He must've glared at Leo or something, because she heard him leave without getting a response. Then again, she might not have heard it over the sound of her own weeping. "I've got you, Haesel. I've got you."

"How did you do it, Siri? How? It h-hurts so much!" she wailed as she hid her head in her godfather's neck.

"How did I do what?" he asked, voice calm. His muscles were tense, though, and she could guess that he was imagining the worst.

"You broke the engagement. We weren't even courting, but Neville's _face _. . . Merlin, Siri, his face! As if I'd run him through with a cutlass. Betrayed. Broken. Bitter." Even here, beneath the immense wards of Black Manor, she could still feel it.

Sirius sucked in a sharp breath. "Ah, so that's what this is about." He hugged her closer and sighed tiredly. "It wasn't a pleasant experience. I'll never forget the look on Leanne's face when I said I was in love with Elara and couldn't bond with her." He wove his fingers into her hair and tugged her head backward until their gazes met. "But I never regret my choice; I regret that Leanne was hurt, but never the decision I made. I love Elara with all my heart, Haesel. She was worth all the speculation, scandal, and sneers thrown my way.

"Getting to kiss her whenever I want, waking up to her smiles in the morning, knowing that she loves me just as wholly—nothing can compete with that, Haesel. I would've been content with Leanne, as you probably would have been with Neville, but content isn't enough. Everyone deserves more than contentment in life.

"You defied everything you had been taught and let Lord Slytherin waltz with you, in public, when you were supposed to be at home. You took a risk, gambled on the love you feel for him. I did the same for Elara. She loved me just as well. There was no aim to hurt Leanne on either of our parts. Leanne and Neville were just casualties of love. It's horrible to say it like that, but it's true."

He rubbed his thumbs across her cheekbones, smoothing away the tears that continued to fall heavily. "Wouldn't it be more cruel to bond with Neville, and spend the rest of your life wishing Lord Slytherin were at your side, kissing your lips, brushing your hair, and giving you children?"

Haesel winced. "Y-yes." Neville deserved better than that. And she couldn't bear the thought of anyone but Marvolo fathering her children.

"Then trust me when I say you need to let it go, Haesel. It wasn't your fault. If you bonded with Neville, you and Lord Slytherin would both suffer. If you bond with Lord Slytherin, only Neville suffers, but he'll eventually get over it, like Leanne did. James told me your magic is already partially entwined with Lord Slytherin's; I doubt either of you would fully recover from a forced separation of that magnitude. So let it go. You did the right thing, darling. It might not feel like it, but you did the right thing." He kissed her forehead and then encircled her once more, letting her huddle against him for shelter from the world.

She felt a wave of Marvolo's magic appear and drowned herself in his love. She couldn't picture a future without Marvolo, couldn't imagine willingly sharing a bed with any other man—not even Neville. Sirius was telling the truth; she had made the right choice. Exhaustion and relief washed through her system, and she collapsed like a broken doll against her godfather.

"I love Marvolo," she confessed. "I don't want anyone else."

"I know, darling. I know." Sirius held her and stroked her back.

Then, fraught with dying guilt, she cried herself to sleep.

* * *

"You what?"

Marvolo was beginning to wish he had _not_ chosen to visit the Malfoys today and had waited until a little later when he could be certain his lady would be present. He knew that Haesel was meant to fly with Lady Rana later in the afternoon, and did not want to be entirely conspicuous. Although he was. Waltzing with her had been—well—more than conspicuous. He could pretend social niceties, however. He had, after all, smashed Heir Malfoy's dreams, not that Marvolo thought Heir Malfoy ever had any chance at winning his lady's hand.

His interest was hardly a secret. The invitations had already been changed. Marvolo only wondered when, exactly, his bonding would be. He wanted a specific date.

Marvolo had been sitting in the parlor, sharing tea with Lord and Lady Malfoy, when the youngest of the Malfoy children had walked in decidedly and, after staring for a moment too long at Marvolo with an ethereally _knowing_ look, stated the following: "I have given my maiden's kiss to Master Potter."

Lucius was obviously in shock.

"Lucius, darling," Narcissa instantly tried to soothe, looking at her younger daughter with hesitation and yet a mother's love. "Let us hear the story. And you must admit, Master Potter is one of the finest catches in all of England, excluding our esteemed guest, although he is already taken." She nodded her head regally toward Marvolo and he nodded in return.

Lucius's pale skin was tinged red. "What _possessed_ you to give him your maiden's kiss?"

Lady Lacerta Malfoy, Marvolo noticed, was stone cold pale and had become rigid in her seat at her younger sister's announcement.

"I want no other but him, and with the betrothal contracts—"

Narcissa sighed and took a sip of her tea. "Yes, darling, but it's a radical step. You're just twelve."

"I know my mind," Iolanthe countered.

"And Master Potter's mind?" Narcissa questioned, her voice cool. She was a cobra ready to strike out at the Potters if necessary.

"Haesel said he was of a similar one. She—I confided in her." Iolanthe looked down at her hands, her golden curls placed in a child's styled bun.

Her sister, whose hair was in the French twist of a young woman, looked away, anger in every tense muscle. Her magic, a faint whiff of homemade butter, was writhing in jealousy.

Lucius's head snapped toward his youngest daughter. "She bid you call her by her given name?" His tone was now calculating.

"Yes, Father," Iolanthe answered, her blue eyes catching his. "She said we are to be sisters so I should call her by her name."

"Hmm," he murmured. "The Potters are unbearably honorable."

"I highly doubt Master Potter would break the vow implicit in a maiden's kiss," Marvolo said, placing himself within the conversation for the first time. "I gather you have the impression that he desires you to be his bride when you come of age?" He already knew the answer, but still, appearances and all that.

Iolanthe looked at him, as if she could see his very soul. "Yes. When a Potter chooses—"

"A Potter chooses," Lucius finished gleefully. "Well, this is good news, although unconventional." As if suddenly aware of Marvolo's presence, he got up and bowed deeply. "Forgive me, Lord Slytherin, that you had to witness such a conversation."

"Not at all," he answered, sending Lady Malfoy a charming smile. "Lord Potter and I were schoolmates. I take an eager interest in the families of my old schoolfellows." The compliment was implicit and Lord Malfoy, as he sat, inclined his head in recognition. "I imagine it is only a matter of time before Lord Potter or his son appears to hammer out a betrothal contract. I remember that Old Charlus was quite head over heels in love with Lady Potter while we were at school. Nothing could deter him from winning her hand, and it appears that his grandson is of the same mind. I offer my best wishes, Lady Iolanthe."

"And I offer you my congratulations," she answered without missing a beat.

Marvolo nodded his head to her. Lady Iolanthe was, after all, in his lady's confidence and was to be his future sister-in-law. Still, he had no idea his lady was quite that cunning. To engineer that a twelve-year-old girl give her maiden's kiss away when she could not speak of her affections to Master Potter . . . it was a masterstroke.

"Thank you," he offered after a moment.

Both Lord and Lady Malfoy were looking between them in confusion at their odd familiarity. Luckily, breeding dictated that they not pry into his personal affairs.

The sound of weeping drew Marvolo from his thoughts. There, in the window seat she had been occupying, Lady Lacerta was now openly crying. Her eyes, ringed with red, focused on her younger sister with such hatred that Marvolo was momentarily stunned. "H-how could you? My own sister! How could you steal him from me?"

Narcissa was instantly out of her seat, arms outstretched toward her eldest, who only batted them away.

"How could you, Io?" Her voice was shrill and hardly ladylike.

Marvolo chose this moment to pour a cup of tea and offer it to Lady Iolanthe, who had not moved a muscle from where she was standing. "Lady Iolanthe?" he offered, holding out the cup. He rarely poured tea and would not do it for just anyone, but the poor girl was beginning to shake and she was dear to his lady and her brother. They would be family within a few years. He could offer her this small courtesy and protect her from such an inferior witch as her older sister clearly was.

Iolanthe immediately looked at Marvolo, taking the cup and sitting on the edge of the couch where he was currently drinking his own tea. "Thank you, Lord Slytherin."

"Thank Lady Haesel," he answered quietly, knowing that the sounds of Lady Malfoy trying to calm her other daughter would overpower anything he said.

"I have a lot to thank Haesel for," Iolanthe answered just as quietly.

"Betrothal contracts can be unpleasant," Marvolo agreed. "Still. Master Henry. A more prestigious match does not come to mind, unless you were to marry into the oligarchy."

"Unlikely," she responded, her warm blue eyes, so different from his lady's, catching his dark gaze. "The only member with whom I'm acquainted is soon to be bonded."

The wards shifted, and Marvolo could feel the familiar magic of Charlus and Henry Potter. "Ah, Lord Malfoy," he said, placing down his teacup, "I believe the expected guests have arrived. I would suggest removing Lady Lacerta to somewhere she would be more comfortable. Perhaps if Lady Rana is present—?"

Lucius was instantly standing, pulling a bell rope, and a house-elf appeared. "Take Lacerta to her room, bring her hot chocolate, and send Rana to her," he ordered. Within a matter of moments, the crying, angry girl had been swept away, her mother's eyes trailing after her. "Thank you for the timely suggestion, Lord Slytherin."

"Not at all," he responded, settling further into his seat.

Narcissa, now that the crisis had been hidden from sight, smoothed down her pale lilac robes before coming forward and kissing the crown of Iolanthe's head. "Are you certain, darling?"

Iolanthe looked back steadily. "Entirely."

A small, sad smile graced her mother's features. "That's all that matters," she responded before resuming her seat. Marvolo briefly wondered why a mother, who claimed to care so much about her child, would ever consider a betrothal contract, even if Lady Iolanthe was just a second daughter. Still, her magic was unusually strong for a witch her age, stronger, in fact, than her older sister's. It would never be as glorious or as powerful as Haesel's, but then no witch's magic ever could be in his opinion.

A house-elf arrived and announced Lord Potter and Master Henry.

"Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy," Charlus greeted, Master Henry silent beside him, although his eyes were trained on Lady Iolanthe. "Lord Slytherin." The bow Charlus executed was flawless despite his age.

Henry did not hesitate as he echoed the gesture. "Lord Marvolo," he murmured after a moment. "Lord Malfoy."

"Lord Potter, Master Henry," Lucius greeted as he stood stock still. "Perhaps we should take this to my office."

"You have been informed, then?" asked Charlus, shooting a glance at his unrepentant grandson.

"Just," Lucius replied. He glanced at his youngest daughter calculatingly. "I take it that my daughter was not forced." His tone was icy as steel.

"Never!" Henry interjected, tearing his eyes away from Marvolo to look at his future father-in-law. "My hands were behind my back!"

"Your hands were behind your back?" Lucius asked in obvious bewilderment. He looked over his shoulder at his daughter before regarding his two guests again. "Why—how?"

"Haesel told him to," was Iolanthe's answer, her voice quiet but powerful. "It was my choice, Father."

Lucius was momentarily flustered. "Well. Lord Potter, Master Henry," he invited, holding his hand out toward the door. His guests proceeded from whence they came, each bowing to Marvolo in turn. Finally, only Lady Malfoy and her daughter remained in his presence.

Narcissa exhaled almost inaudibly. "His hands were behind his back?"

"A maiden's kiss must be freely given," Iolanthe quoted, taking up her tea again. "Please don't be angry, Mama."

Narcissa deflated a little, although her posture remained perfect. "I'm not angry. I simply wish you would have told me."

Iolanthe paused. "A solution hadn't occurred to me—and you seemed to like the idea of a union with—" She paused, glancing at Marvolo, who looked steadily back at her. "It no longer signifies."

"No, I suppose it doesn't."

Silence descended over the three of them.

"My grandfather's bonding, I believe, was arranged," Marvolo offered, remembering the family history he had gleaned from his Uncle Morfin's mind. It was truly disgusting. The man had married his own niece for the sake of blood purity. "I doubt it was happy, though."

"I don't believe Aunt Bellatrix or Uncle Rodolphus are entirely happy," Iolanthe whispered, looking into her tea.

"Iolanthe! I taught you better than that!" her mother rebuked, although she did not correct the assumption. "That, also, is a special case."

"Of course," Iolanthe remarked pensively.

There was another brief silence. Sometimes Marvolo hated social calls, even though this one had proved rather unconventional. "So, Lady Haesel approves the match?"

"Yes," Iolanthe said, smiling.

"My future wife informed me of the engagement last night. You certainly will make a fine pair," Marvolo complimented. "Regardless of your obvious magical and social compatibility, you will make a stunning couple."

"Master Henry, according to my two eldest children, is often referred to as 'the Golden God', if I'm not much mistaken, Lord Slytherin." Narcissa snapped her fingers and the teapot vanished. A moment later another appeared, steaming pleasantly.

"I can see why," Marvolo answered. "He and Lady Haesel are like night and day in their appearances."

"Indeed," Narcissa responded. "Lady Haesel has the Potter coloring, while Master Henry takes after his mother."

"Yes," Iolanthe agreed. "He looks like a brother to his uncle, Master Valerius. I was quite startled when I realized that was not the case."

"Hmm." Marvolo accepted another offering of tea. "I wonder, Lady Malfoy, if I might perhaps ride one of your Abraxans later this afternoon? I understand there's an unofficial gathering that occasionally takes place. I have no horseflesh of my own at present, given my decades spent in the Lone Islands." Perhaps he should look into purchasing some Abraxans or Pegasi, so his lady wouldn't need to visit Malfoy Manor for her favorite leisure activity.

Narcissa looked serene but sad, and then her eyes hooded with resignation. She was an intelligent woman and could easily determine his reason for asking—and there was no way she could refuse. The game was already lost and, well, it would behoove her to keep in his good graces, even if her youngest would soon be related to him by bonding. "Of course, my lord. I believe Lady Haesel is due to arrive at about half three, and my son just about now."

"Excellent!" Marvolo responded. "Do you ride, Lady Iolanthe?"

She shook her head. "No, they're so—_large_."

"I possessed a similar sentiment when I was your age," Marvolo admitted. "I grew to appreciate Pegasi later in life." He'd never liked Muggle horses, finding them plebian and common. Also, they were a symbol of a past long gone, and Marvolo, before he had learnt he was a wizard, was rather passionate about the idea of modernity and stepping into the future. Abraxans, though, were majestic creatures and his lady clearly adored the sport.

At that moment, the doors opened and Draco casually strolled in. Upon seeing Marvolo, he paused. Although his lips were in a thin line, he bowed before going to his mother and kissing her cheek. He quickly took the place beside her.

Well, one thing Marvolo would give to the annoying boy. At least his father had Abraxans and he was respectful toward his mother. He had yet to see any other positive qualities to him. He wondered how Heir Malfoy had possibly thought himself the potential equal of the future Lady Slytherin. It was a mystery to him.

"Tea?" Narcissa inquired.

"We're going riding in half an hour," Draco responded, glancing at the clock.

"It might be slightly later than that. Lady Haesel will require a chaperone, and both Lacerta and Rana may be indisposed. Master Henry is also discussing business in your father's study at present."

"Business. What business?" Draco inquired, looking at his mother in confusion.

"A betrothal contract," was Narcissa's succinct reply.

"Good on Lacerta," Draco answered.

Lady Iolanthe flinched from her spot near Marvolo. He offered her a comforting smile. At least, he hoped it was comforting. He doubted he'd offered one to any person apart from Lady Haesel, and they came naturally then. Otherwise, he was just acting the diplomat.

"It is Lady Iolanthe," Marvolo refuted when he saw Lady Malfoy hesitate. "It appears he is much enamored."

Draco stilled, looking at his youngest sister in a new light. "My best wishes, Io," he said fondly, getting up to kiss the top of her head. "No wonder Lacerta is indisposed, though. Rana is seeing to her?" he asked in general.

"Yes," his mother responded. "It's best if she doesn't see Lady Haesel or Master Henry, I think, until school begins, if it can be arranged."

"She'll keep to her room," Draco said matter-of-factly, as if this were a regular occurrence. "I doubt there will be a problem."

The room descended into silence, all of them waiting for a Potter's arrival.

* * *

**Note:** And Sirius finally makes an appearance. :D Do we love him? And Lacerta is jealous as all get-out. Do we sympathize? Also, do you all want a oneshot focused on Henry/Iolanthe set when they're older? Uh . . . and I broke Neville's heart. XD - Ell


	11. Part the Tenth

**Part the Tenth**

Haesel whimpered as Neville's haunted face loomed over her. His features were twisted in a mask of hatred and unrelenting betrayal. "You're mine. You were always meant to be mine," he said, voice grating along her nerves. "I love you. I've always loved you!"

"No," she muttered as she shook her head. That wasn't true, couldn't be. She wasn't his, had never been his.

Neville's hands grabbed her shoulders so tightly that she could feel bruises forming already. It was ruthless, unlike his usual tenderness in her presence. "Magic made you a Potter and my only godsister. We're meant to be together, Haesel. Why can't you see that?" He shook her like a rag doll, making her neck ache and her hair fall from its pins.

"We're not!" she protested, terrified of her godbrother for the first time in her life. He was _hurting_ her!

Neville thrust a hand into her hair and fisted it, knotting it around his hand and pulling until her scalp burned. Was he going to rip it out? "You've let him touch it, haven't you? You've let him see it? Why?" Spittle flecked his lips. "You know only your fiancé has that right, Haesel. Only I have the right to see it, to touch it, to smell it."

"It's his right," she moaned, wishing she had the strength to pull away. Why was he hurting her? She might not want to bond with him, but she still loved him. He had to know that.

"It's _my_ right." A yelp escaped her as he yanked, forcing her neck to crane at an awkward angle. "Why do you let him touch you, Haesel? Why do you give in to his dark desires? Why do you surrender to that lying, deceitful philanderer?"

"He's not—not—" Why did she let Marvolo touch her? Because she wanted his touch, and he had never abused that privilege, had never sought to take from her.

"Lord Bloody Slytherin deigns to return to England and you pant after him like a crup in heat. Where's he been all your life, huh? Off shagging anything that moves, I'll bet. How many ladies, whores, tarts, do you think he's bedded? I bet he can't even remember the number. I won't let you join their ranks, Haesel. I won't," Neville growled in her ear.

Haesel felt like she was going to throw up. Neville had called her a whore. Neville had called her a _whore_! Her breath hitched in her throat and tears welled in her eyes. She wasn't like that, and he knew it. She had kept herself pure for her future lord, swearing her virginity to her husband alone. Marvolo wouldn't think of her as a tart on their bonding night . . . surely not. He loved her. He had said so multiple times!

"What are you saying?" she shrieked. She knew her refusal had hurt Neville, but for him to react like this . . .

"The truth," Neville spat. "Hurts, doesn't it?" He carded a hand through her hair in a mockery of the tenderness Marvolo had shown last night. Even when Marvolo had felt more betrayed than Neville possibly could, he had still been gentle with her.

"You're lying!" Haesel clung to that one truth. Marvolo would never, ever, ever, _ever_ think she was a whore.

"Of course, the magnificent Lord Slytherin is going to be accustomed to women who know how to service him. You don't. I figure it will take him less than a year to get bored with you. And then what will you be left with?" Neville's voice was a slow stab at her heart.

"T-that won't h-happen," she stuttered.

"Yes, it will." Neville smirked at her in a patronizing manner, as if she were a young child who knew nothing of the world. "But I would never do that to you, Haesel. I would be gentle. I would forsake all others for you, and I would certainly never tire of you. I've loved you forever, Haesel. Nothing will change that."

Haesel struggled, trying to escape the dark feeling of his presence. He was tainted—wrong. This wasn't like him. Neville wasn't like this. He was good, sweet, and caring. _What if I broke him?_ she wondered. _What if choosing Marvolo over him snapped his sanity and made him this . . . thing_.

Neville's hold tightened the more she fought against it. "If you bond with him, what do you think he'll do when he's bored with you, when he's _done_? He's been one of the most important people in the wizarding world since he stepped into it, Haesel. You can't deny that. People like him lose interest quickly. Seducing you and making you love him is nothing more than a passing fancy of his, a game. How fast could he make you want him?" Neville grinded his teeth. "Much too fast, it seems."

Haesel stilled, loose strands of hair falling forward to block her eyes. "He loves me," she whispered.

"What was that?" Neville cocked his head, as if he hadn't quite heard her.

"He loves me!" Haesel screamed, before throwing her head back. Her bid for freedom failed, resulting in nothing more than a wave of pain that almost made her faint.

"I love you!" Neville spat, literally, in her face. His visage was macabre, as if a demon had possessed him. "Why won't you accept that? Why?" He shook her again, making her bite her tongue. Thankfully, it didn't start bleeding. "I love you more than he ever could, than he ever will. Choose me!"

The tears overflowed, washing the spit away as she sobbed. "I've made my choice, Neville. I chose him."

"Then change it!"

"I can't!" she screamed hysterically. Her chest throbbed, her heart beating so rapidly that she wondered when it would burst and save her from this—this—monster.

Neville's voice was deceptively soft as he breathed against her ear. "You mean you won't." He sounded dangerous, akin to the rage in Marvolo's voice when she had foolishly allowed Zach to kiss her the night before.

"I won't," she agreed. Black spots danced before her eyes, and she prayed to Merlin and Morgana that she would pass out soon, or that someone would come and save her. Why hadn't she thought of that before? Marvolo would come.

Haesel's magic screamed his name so loudly that she felt it hum from her. _Marvolo!_

"What's so special about him?" Neville's voice was toneless now, which frightened her more than the earlier outward showing of anger. He was never quiet when raging. "What's so bloody special about him? Is it because he's already a lord? Is it because he knows how to please women? Is that what you want?" She wept and shook her head. "Is it because he's wealthy? Are you that shallow now, Haesel? Has he brought you so low?" When she didn't speak, he fisted her hair and stretched her neck back even more. "Answer me!"

"N-no." Haesel's neck trembled from the strain. Would it break soon? Was Neville going to snap her neck? Was she going to die without ever getting to bond with her lord?

_Marvolo!_

"Is it his looks, then? Does his handsome face set your heart fluttering? Does he make you burn with longing, Haesel?" His lips curled in a vindictive leer. "Do you ache for him to complete you, to fill you with his heirs?"

It wasn't like that! Neville made their love sound like lust—something filthy and base. "It's not like that!" she pleaded, begging him to listen and let her go. "I swear it's not like that, Neville. Please. Please just let me go!"

"So that you can crawl into his bed and give him what's rightfully mine? I don't think so, Haesel." She didn't know how to describe the look on his face, only knowing that it frightened her and made her want to hide where no one could find her.

_Marvolo, hurry!_

"Why do you refuse to understand that I'm the good guy? I love you, Haesel. If I let Slytherin have you, he'd ruin you. He'd take everything you have to offer and give you nothing but lies and empty platitudes. He'll tire of you. And do you know what he'll do then, Haesel? Do you?" Neville's left hand grabbed her face, bruising her cheeks as he forced her to meet his gaze. "Do you!" he yelled, eyes crazed.

"N-no." Haesel's teeth cut the inside of her cheek, and the taste of copper pooled on her tongue.

An insane, victorious light lit his eyes. "He's going to leave you."

Those five words pummeled her heart harder than everything else he had said combined. He's going to leave you. _He's going to leave you_. Like his father—the man he was named for—had left his mother. Would she be like that? Would she get abandoned by her husband, only to die birthing his heir? "That's not true," she said numbly, pulse racing. It couldn't possibly be true, right?

"Oh, but it is." Neville chuckled. "You're still so naïve, Haesel. I know men like him. He'll leave you, probably return to whatever exotic location he spent decades in, and forget that he ever had a wife or children. You'll be nothing more than a passing memory of a game he won on a brief jaunt back to England."

She gagged, bile rising in her throat. "N-no."

"Yes, it's true. He'll leave you with nothing more than an heir, to ensure the survival of his bloodline. And you'll spend the rest of your life with the child, a small bit of him, knowing all his words were lies. He _never_ loved you."

Haesel started hyperventilating, her heart tearing to pieces and crumbling to ash. "You're lying," she breathed. He had to be. She had felt Marvolo's magic prove his vow of love to her. Marvolo had sent his magic to protect her. He had come when she called for him. He loved her!

"No, I'm not. You know I'm telling the truth." Neville sounded scarily reasonable now, as if he really believed his own words. He loosened the tight hold on her hair and stroked it as if she were a well-loved pet. "But I can save you from that inevitable pain, Haesel. I can make everything better. I can give you a future full of love, laughter, fidelity, and as many children as you desire." She opened her mouth to protest, but, before she could speak, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "All I have to do is one—simple—thing."

"W-what?" She felt weak, drained, as if for all her magical strength and power, she was helpless. Why couldn't she escape? Why was he doing this? If he really loved her, which she knew he did, he wouldn't hurt her like this. What was wrong with him?

Neville's laughter was eerie, haunting, as it echoed around them. "I'm going to kill your precious Lord Slytherin."

"NO!" Haesel screamed as she shot up in bed. She glanced around the room wildly, hands clawing out at a specter that wasn't there—at a nightmare more malevolent than any Cedric had ever inspired.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, straining against the sweat-soaked nightgown she wore. The sight of the silver-embroidered stars made her remember where she was: Black Manor. Aunt Elara must have changed her into one of Cousin Pleione's nightgowns and put her to bed in one of the guest chambers after she had fallen asleep on Uncle Sirius. Her hair lay tangled in a loose plait and her hands rose to her scalp, which ached. She must have rolled over on it while thrashing about. The bedclothes were all over the place, and several of the pillows were on the floor. It looked like a particularly vicious pillow fight had taken place.

"It wasn't real," she whispered. Neville hadn't—it wasn't real. The realization sent her into another bout of tears, which she let flow without any attempt at restraint. She wrapped her arms around herself and curled her knees against her chest. "I-it felt s-so real," she sobbed. The hateful glares and words returned to her, and Haesel barely made it to the edge of the bed in time to be sick.

The acidic taste only reminded her of the acidic bitterness in Neville's eyes as she continually refuted his demands for her hand. When there was nothing left in her stomach, she cast a cleaning charm on the floor and then a refreshing charm on herself, wanting the taste of betrayal out of her mouth.

Haesel wiped her arm across her eyes, but it did little to stem the flood of tears. She felt so broken, damaged, and alone. Where was Marvolo? She needed him!

_Where are you?_

It was then that she realized she had forced her magic to encase her in a protective bubble, likely an unconscious shield she had created during the nightmare as she fought against Neville's vitriolic abuse.

She bit her tongue when she noticed she couldn't feel Marvolo's magic at all. It wasn't entwined with hers, as it always was these days. She felt bereft—abandoned.

"Neville wasn't right," she whimpered. "Marvolo won't leave me."

Haesel focused through her panic and tore the shield apart, which took longer than she would have liked. The second it shattered, she felt it: a duel of ferocious power and emotions. "Marvolo. Siri." She threw the covers back and clambered off the bed, almost tumbling to the floor as her legs fought to support her. She felt weak, pathetic. Her fingers spasmed as she clutched the nearest bedpost and waited for her legs to work properly; any delay was deadly at this point.

She remembered, now, screaming for Marvolo in the nightmare. Haesel could only imagine how terrified she must have sounded for him to storm Black Manor to come to her. And, of course, he wouldn't have bothered to explain himself to her godfather. The feral quality to Marvolo's magic informed her that he wasn't in his right mind. He felt dark, lethal, and the scent of hemlock was flooding the air.

If Haesel didn't interrupt them soon, someone she loved was going to die.

The feel of their magic was steadily darkening, and she wasn't stupid enough to assume either man was above using the Dark Arts when they thought they were protecting her. She couldn't let it come to that.

Haesel's whole body shivered and shook as she stumbled toward the bedroom door. She kept a hand on the closest wall, praying it would support her long enough to avert a tragedy of epic proportions. She fumbled with the doorknob for what felt like ages before it finally turned in her grasp. Haesel opened the door, shoving it back against the wall in a bid for their attention.

It worked. Thank Morgana, it worked.

Sirius and Marvolo spun to face her, but she only spared a passing glance for her godfather. Marvolo was here; he hadn't left her. His hair was floating in the air from the strength of his aura, his magic was lashing out wildly in the hallway, and his eyes were the color of freshly spilled blood. If he had been anyone else, she would have cowered back into the bedroom. But this was Marvolo—her lord—and she trusted that he would never harm her.

"I need you," she whispered, voice hoarse from crying and body still shuddering, as if she had been Cruciated.

Marvolo reached her just as she collapsed, arms curling around her and pressing her safely against his chest. Her hands scrabbled at the back of his robes as she clung to him and buried herself inside his magic.

Haesel struggled to lift her head, and then kissed him ardently, with all the love and unspoken fears of her soul. He returned it and forced her even closer, guarding her inside his embrace. His tongue begged entrance to her mouth, and she granted it—shocked, but pleased. He was gentle with her, always gentle, and she pushed the nightmare's accusations back further. There was no way Marvolo could kiss her like this if he wasn't truly in love with her.

It had been nothing but a woven realm of the blackest lies.

When the spots returned, reminding her of her need to breathe, Haesel reluctantly broke the kiss. Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked up and was met with the sight of crimson eyes. They were sanguineous, and not scary in the least.

"Promise me that you'll never leave me," Haesel pleaded, fingernails scratching against his back as she fisted his robes. "Promise me!" There was a hysterical edge to her voice that made his eyes flash with an emotion she couldn't place.

A guttural hiss escaped his lips, unintelligible to her ears, but she knew he had granted her request and given her the promise she so desperately sought.

Eyes still wet with tears, Haesel leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she breathed.

And then she fainted.

* * *

"Lord Marvolo." He recognized the voice instantly and, setting down his cup of tea, turned to Henry.

"Congratulations on your betrothal," Marvolo said loudly enough so everyone could hear. Henry's eyes flicked to Iolanthe, a look of adoration on his face, before refocusing his attention on Marvolo.

Lovesick fool. Marvolo, after meeting his own lady, highly doubted he did not look at her like that in private. Sentiment. The word no longer tasted like ash in his mouth.

"My sister had a bit of a shock this morning," Henry continued, his voice lowered so that only Marvolo and Iolanthe could hear him. "Her godbrother visited and upset her." Ice ran through Marvolo's veins but he said nothing, instead choosing to nod. "Haesel is well but she went to visit our uncle, Sirius, Lord Black. She was rather—distraught."

Marvolo paused for a moment. Ah, so that was why her magic had been fluctuating earlier. "Is it customary for her to seek out your uncle?" _And not me?_ If his lady had a problem, he would prefer she sought a solution in his arms. Even though Lord Black was her godfather, Marvolo wanted to be the man she always went to for anything and everything. Lady Haesel was now his to possess and his to protect.

Henry nodded. "Black Manor is a place of refuge. As our grandmother is a Black, the family magics are comforting."

"Of course," Marvolo conceded, thinking of his own magicless _Muggle_ manor house. It had never mattered to him before, but now—certainly there was something that could be done.

So, for the first time in over a week (since it sounded like Haesel would be unavoidably delayed), he gladly went to Riddle Manor. Marvolo looked at it critically from the outside, feeling the wards pulsing about the property. He had had the house-elves plant a wild garden in the back and, after purchasing a mithril gazebo, had enchanted the flowers to climb up the structure to create a haven for his future wife.

"Hazel trees," he murmured to himself, before snapping his fingers and instructing a house-elf to go purchase mature magical specimens. The House of Slytherin would no longer just be known for the genetic ability to speak to snakes but would always bear the symbol of his bride's name.

Yule. He had only to wait until Yule. Then he could bring his bride home and ravish her on their shared bed. Yule was less than six months away, but they felt like Island months—refusing to pass in the blink of an eye. Marvolo had already waited patiently for decades, and now his patience was rapidly wearing thin.

The suite of rooms he had prepared for her months ago would not be necessary. He no longer wanted any 'proper' distance between them; Haesel would stay with him in his chambers every night, where she belonged. In short order, another house-elf was summoned and orders were given out to turn the room into a feminine sitting room and library. She should be permitted her own sanctuary, especially over the Easter holiday when she would be studying for her N.E.W.T.s.

Marvolo was ensconced in the private library when he felt _her_. Her fear, her vulnerability, her sheer panic, and her desire to be held close and never let go ever again. Her magic screamed for him. _Marvolo_!

He hadn't even realized he had Apparated until he found himself in a dark oak-paneled room, his yew wand clasped between his fingers. A small house-elf flinched away from him as it came into the room.

"Lady Haesel Potter, now," Marvolo barked as he swept past the frightened creature and into a well-appointed living room. He could feel the wards pulsing against him, but he didn't care. He battled them, refusing to let them eject him. Marvolo could feel her terror, her heartbreak, and he had to get to her _now_.

Before Marvolo could stop himself, he was out of the room and following the scent of jasmine, trying to send out his magic to calm his fiancée. But he could still feel her fear. And, on top of that, he couldn't seem to contact her directly. Something was blocking his magic from reassuring her; the thought made him homicidal. Who _dared_ to try to keep him, Lord _Slytherin,_ away from his lady? They would die. Nothing else would ever satisfy him.

"Stop. Right. There." The voice was cold, commanding, and Marvolo was suddenly looking down at the business end of a wand.

"What have you done to my betrothed?" Marvolo demanded, his own wand coming up to point in the handsome face of Sirius Black.

"Nothing," Purple sparks flared from the end of Sirius's wand and Marvolo's immediately responded, shooting out gold and silver.

"Nothing," Marvolo mocked, taking in Sirius's handsome form. True hatred ran through his veins. "Absolutely nothing?"

Sirius bristled. "What are you insinuating, Lord Slytherin?" His wand cut down in a slashing movement but Marvolo neatly sidestepped the warning jinx.

"You like to turn in what you have for—let us say—a younger broom model," Marvolo accused, going mad at the feel of her magic. It was so frightened that it drove him into a frenzy. Haesel hadn't even felt this terrified when that Diggory boy attempted to kidnap her when she was fifteen. What was happening to her? Still, he tried to keep his calm. The magic pulsing at his fingertips, though . . . Green sparks erupted toward Sirius.

"How _dare_ you—" Sirius began, but Marvolo cut him off.

"Lady Haesel is nearly of age. You are in a position of power. And she is _here_, unescorted, in your home."

"With my wife and children."

"Who are nowhere at present to my knowledge." Marvolo felt his eyes flash and wondered if they had reverted to red. He couldn't even remember the last time they had been the color of spilled blood, but he would never forget the first time it had happened: moments after his father and grandparents died. "What did you do to her?" _Lord Black must have done something, despite his protestations_, Marvolo mused. Why else would Haesel have cause to be so scared while in her godfather's manor?

Sirius sent another hex, and then there was a cascade of livid green light. Marvolo hadn't spoken a word but his lady was in trouble, needed him, and this ridiculous _puppy_ of a man was in his way.

_Marvolo, hurry!_

"Nothing. And if this is how you act—"

"If this is how _I_ act?" Marvolo's wand spit out purple and green sparks, though he longed to cast the Unforgivable Curses in succession. "I come to my lady's rescue from a wizard she mistakenly trusts."

"Now see here, you pompous, old geezer! If anyone is being mistakenly trusted, it's _you_." Another curse, the air now humming with magic. "Don't think we don't know the rumors of your former conquests before you left for Hell itself, deflowering witches left, right, and center, all of them begging for the _esteemed honor_ of being Lady Slytherin." His tone was mocking and his face vicious. "Please, Lord Slytherin. Yes, Lord Slytherin. Anything you ask, Lord Slytherin. You are not worthy of being in a crowded room with my goddaughter, let alone deserving of being her fiancé."

Marvolo breathed heavily through his nostrils and shot an Unforgivable at Sirius Black, which just managed to brush his shoulder; Sirius was annoyingly good at dodging. He enjoyed the man's cut off scream. Marvolo did not appreciate the implications; he had never deflowered a pureblood maiden. As skewed as it sometimes was, he did have honor. "Fortunately that is not for the likes of you to decide."

The tip of his yew wand began to glow with the Killing Curse. He had to get to Haesel, and he had to get to her immediately. She needed _him_.

"How can you be so sure? I am her _godfath_—"

"Tell me where Lady Haesel is, or I swear by all that is good in me, I will _kill_ you where you stand." His wand was trained on Sirius's heart, the curse on his lips, and it felt good to wield so much power. It had been decades—and this man was keeping him from his beloved Haesel.

Then there was a release of magic, flowing out to him, and he could suddenly sense her presence once more. Whatever had blocked her off, daring to hide her from _him_, of all people, had been shattered. The realization distracted him just long enough for Sirius to summon the same curse to the tip of his wand. However, before either of them could kill the other, a door slammed back against a wall nearby. Marvolo and Sirius both turned, and then Haesel was there.

Haesel leaned against the doorway in a crumpled, silken nightgown, which took his breath away. Her eyes were wet and glassy, and she shuddered as if recovering from the Cruciatus Curse. The thought of someone torturing her made him wish he had chosen the path of a Dark Lord, so that he could indiscriminately Cruciate countless followers for her suffering.

Her haunted, icy eyes bore into him as she whispered, "I need you."

In a rush of wrinkled robes, Marvolo had his lady in his arms. And then he was inexplicably and suddenly content with the world, all anger melting from him. He buried his hands in Haesel's hair, which had fallen down as if she had just awakened, and he felt her fear tangle with his magic as he soothed her with his presence. _Nothing can harm you in my arms, my darling_.

_I love you, I love you_, his heart sang. Marvolo could feel her relief and exhaustion as he kissed her again and again. With each swipe of his tongue against hers—Merlin, she tasted divine—she calmed a little more. His hold on her was firm and possessive as she huddled against him and surrendered her mouth.

"Promise me that you'll never leave me!" The hysterical, begging quality to her voice turned his stomach. She couldn't possibly think he would ever leave her; he was nothing like his father! What would arouse such a fear? "Promise me!" Haesel's nails bit at his back, as if she sought to keep him at her side.

"_Not even death could make me leave you, my darling_," Marvolo hissed in Parseltongue, grip tightening even further. She belonged to him, with him, and nothing would change that.

"Thank you," she breathed, and then she fainted in his arms. Marvolo caught her effortlessly and held her close to him. He breathed in the scent of jasmine and vowed never to feel her terrified helplessness ever again. It was unacceptable.

Sirius was staring at the two of them, as if he couldn't quite believe the tender flow of affection he had just witnessed. "You really do love her," he breathed in sheer amazement.

Marvolo glowered. "If I didn't, do you think that I would come here and almost kill you to get to my betrothed?" he quipped back, before lifting Haesel carefully into his arms. In her sleep, she wrapped her hands behind his neck and pulled him closer. He laid a gentle kiss on her forehead. "A sofa, I think."

Sirius wordlessly held his hand out toward a living room, and Marvolo swept past him, barely giving him a second glance. Instead of laying her down on a plush sofa, he settled himself on one and kept Haesel in his arms. Marvolo couldn't let her go—not yet—not when she needed him, not when her dreams plagued her.

He'd kill that Longbottom idiot if the boy were responsible. Henry had said she was distraught and, from her sleepy and desperate mumblings, he could only guess what the whelp had accused him of. The irony was that Longbottom would have been right if Marvolo hadn't fallen irrevocably in love with the witch in his arms. Now, he would not return to the Lone Islands unless she accompanied him. He couldn't bear to leave her. Haesel was too precious, his everything.

How had this happened? How had he fallen in love with this slip of a girl?

Marvolo barely noticed when Sirius settled himself nearby in his silent capacity of chaperone. He wasn't surprised, though, when James Potter stepped through the Floo shortly after to take in the scene.

"What happened?" James asked, bewildered.

"Heir Longbottom, I expect, happened," Marvolo icily replied. Thoughts of vengeance clamored in his head. "My lady had a nightmare and called for me."

"Neville? He wouldn't hurt a fly?"

Marvolo glanced up, his eyes narrowing. "A fly, perhaps not, but he did distress my future bride. Put him in line, Heir Potter, or I will." He held James's unusually solemn gaze before looking back down at his heart. After several long moments, he said, "I would like to issue an invitation to you, Heir Potter, your wife, and your two children to my home for tea tomorrow. It is time that Lady Haesel be given the opportunity of furnishing her future home." And filling it with her irresistible magic.

"I—" James ran a hand over his face. "Of course. We would be delighted."

"Excellent," Marvolo responded crisply before snapping his fingers. A house-elf appeared and he ordered tea.

When Lady Haesel finally awoke in his arms, she snuggled closer. "Is that tea?" she asked sleepily. James immediately looked up from the racing section of _the Prophet_.

"Earl Grey, my lady. Would you care for a cup?"

"Hmm," she responded, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, clearly still half-asleep. "With more milk than usual."

Marvolo looked over at the house-elf that had remained in a corner—his hands were rather full, after all—and immediately a cup was filled to her specifications. Marvolo picked it up and offered it to her. She took it with one hand and sipped it daintily, looking the picture of innocent debauchery, her curls falling out of the loose French-plait, her silk nightgown wrinkled from sleep. Marvolo's breath left his body. Soon, soon, he would wake up to this sight every morning, but with her more suitably attired and with her hair flowing down her back.

"I love you, Marvolo," Haesel murmured, leaning up for a kiss.

"My lady," he whispered in reverence, before claiming her lips gently, uncaring of their audience.

James cleared his throat and Haesel barely startled, though she nearly spilled her tea. "Dad?" she inquired, turning and seeing the other two occupants of the room.

"Lord Slytherin has been kind enough to invite our family to tea at his manor house tomorrow. He wishes for you to start making notes on any changes you might like to make."

"I think my grandmother was the last woman to reside there," Marvolo said when Haesel turned bewildered eyes to him. "Her tastes were rather—dated—even for the early 1900s."

"Your mother will chaperone you to the more private rooms," James stated coldly.

Sirius was uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes flitting between his friend and goddaughter. It wasn't his place to interfere in bonding plans of this sort.

"Of course, Dad," Haesel responded as she lifted herself up into a sitting position. The tea remained unspilled. "I suppose it's almost time for dinner?"

"Yes, darling," her father said mischievously. "And what a story I will have to tell."

"Dad!" Haesel admonished, blushing becomingly.

"You are a Potter to the last," James chuckled as Marvolo took out his wand and charmed his lady's hair into a simple bun.

She reached back to touch her hair and smiled. "Thank you, _my lord_," she whispered.

"It was my pleasure," Marvolo replied just as quietly. Anything to do with her hair was a pleasure. "Until tomorrow, then." She was finally going to be where she belonged: his home. Unfortunately, tradition and her honor dictated he couldn't keep her there until after their bonding.

"Yes." Her words were now breathless. "Until tomorrow."

* * *

**Note:** Not really sure what to say right now, other than that I really appreciate you all. Toaster, thank you for the wonderful and encouraging reviews each chapter; if you had allowed PMs, I would have happily answered each one. :D -Ell


	12. Part the Eleventh

**Part the Eleventh**

Haesel smiled up at her mother as they exited the third drawing room in Riddle Manor. They had been touring and making notes for the past hour and a half, and she couldn't help but wonder how Marvolo was entertaining her father and brother. As long as her father didn't start a fight—he was still annoyed that she had been around Marvolo in a nightgown—she assumed they would all still be alive by the time she and her mother returned to the first floor parlor for tea.

"It's lovely architecture," said Isadore. "Lord Slytherin was right; the rooms need work. But I think you'll be happy here." She clasped Haesel's empty hand and grinned.

Haesel squeezed her mother's hand in response. "I agree. There's a lot of potential. I think his grandmother was just overly fond of excessiveness and horribly gaudy displays of wealth." The sitting room that was nothing but endless shades of gold had hurt her eyes.

"Like the Malfoys," Isadore whispered, as if sharing a secret. "Narcissa has a sitting room that's full of mirrors, so she can see herself from every angle."

Laughing, Haesel swung her mother's hand. While she liked Lady Malfoy, she didn't doubt it in the least. Lady Malfoy was generally nice, but she was also quite vain. "Don't let Grandmama hear you say that. Blacks have every right to be vain," Haesel replied.

Isadore mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. "What room is next?" she asked the house-elf who was silently leading them.

"The Lord's and Lady's chambers," the house-elf responded.

Haesel stared at the bound parchment book she had been writing her notes in. Other than two of the parlors, the main library, the entrance hall, and a few other rooms, the manor desperately needed redecorating. She could easily understand why Marvolo wanted her to make a list of changes as soon as possible—otherwise the manor wouldn't be ready by the time they bonded. Well, it might not be quite that much work, but it was close.

"All right, let's start with the Lady's chambers," she said as she reread the list.

The house-elf turned around and wrung one of its ears. "My lady be misunderstanding."

"How so?" Isadore asked, brow furrowed.

"There's being none of those, excepting the sitting room and library we maked for my lady yesterday," said the house-elf.

"And you did a wonderful job on those," Haesel quickly assured the creature. The furniture had been elegant and antique, built to last and built for style—unlike the horrendous pieces that had become popular in the last decade. Though it was somewhat disloyal to her heritage, she adored Baroque furniture. However, her favorite styles were Elizabethan and Medieval—never let it be said that she couldn't appreciate one of the areas Muggles excelled in.

Isadore gazed at the house-elf, head tilted, and then nodded. "You meant chambers that the Lord and Lady of the House will share."

The house-elf nodded enthusiastically, its ears slapping against its face. "Yes! My lord is being most insistent that my lady is not being in chambers way away from him. My lord is saying a lady is belonging with her lord always. My lord is being most very determined." He stared up with teary eyes, as if they would punish him for his words.

"Please show us," Haesel whispered. Her thoughts were on her future as Lady Slytherin, and Marvolo's desire that she share his chambers. She knew of several pureblood witches who had their own bedroom, separate from their husbands. She also knew her grandparents cohabitated, as did her parents. Haesel had always sought that for herself: a man who would want her with him always. Being relegated to another bedchamber, only to be visited when he sought his marital rights, would be insulting in the extreme.

"This is being the way, my lady," the house-elf said. It started back down the corridor, and they followed it.

"Are you okay, darling? Your face is red," Isadore said, with both a hint of worry and teasing in her tone.

"I'm fine, Mum. I just . . ."

"Just what, darling?" queried Isadore, more worry in her voice. She released Haesel's hand and gave her a one-armed hug.

Haesel sighed and leaned her head on her mother's shoulder. "Mum, would you let me—can I—will you—?"

Isadore stopped walking and locked gazes with Haesel. Their eyes were mirror reflections of ice, and only two inches separated their height. Anyone who didn't know them might assume they were sisters, perhaps even twins, if Isadore had also possessed ebony hair, instead of her golden locks. "What is it?"

"May I enter the chambers alone?" inquired Haesel. It wouldn't be at all proper, but the closer she got to their destination, the more uncomfortable she felt with letting her mother enter the rooms Marvolo slept in. A Lord and Lady's bedchamber was for them alone: intimate and sacred. She had never even entered her parents' bedroom. She had seen all the other rooms attached to their suite, but not that one.

The smile on Isadore's face was bittersweet as she traced her fingers down Haesel's face. "It seems like just yesterday that I held you in my arms for the first time. And now you're all grown up." Her voice was husky and gentle.

"Mum . . ."

"Of course you may, darling. I understand. I'll wait outside for you."

"My lady? We are being here," the house-elf said. It pointed at a door just feet from where they stood.

"Thank you," Haesel said absently. She stepped toward it, and then turned around and engulfed her mother in a hug. "I love you, Mum."

"And I you, my darling girl," Isadore whispered. She hugged her tightly, and then kissed her brow. "Now go see your future, darling. But never forget your past."

"I won't," Haesel promised as she pulled away. She inhaled shakily and blinked back the tears that wanted to fall. She could only hope that, someday in the future, she would be half the mother her own was.

Haesel walked around the house-elf and into the room, before closing the door behind her. The room was elegant, with dark, antique furniture. Sofas and settees were placed near the massive fireplace that was over six feet tall. Its mantle was yew, and the hearth was free of soot. She walked toward it and ran her hand along the mantle, pausing just long enough to set down the book she had carried in with her, before turning her eyes to the floor. Haesel could easily imagine winter nights spent cuddled before a roaring fire, Marvolo's arms holding her close to his side. She would tilt her head back and offer her lips, and he would claim them until she could no longer think.

Her fingers trailed along the back of the nearest settee. Haesel would lie here in her nightgown, waiting for Marvolo to return from advising the Minister for Magic, because she would be unable to sleep without him beside her—his breath on her neck, his arm about her waist, and his magic blanketing her.

She stood before an ornate mirror, non-magical and somehow all the more intriguing because of it. Haesel would stand right here before they left for balls, having to fix her hair because he inevitably messed it up when he couldn't help but kiss her, for her gown was just a little too low-cut. Marvolo's magic would lash out with jealousy, and his eyes might turn that mesmerizing color of fresh blood. He would demand she change, but Haesel would ignore him, because he had been spending too much time at the clubs, and she missed him.

Haesel opened the nearest door and walked into a dressing room of immense proportions. There were empty racks and drawers, each waiting for her clothing, shoes, and accessories. The lack of items called to her, as if Marvolo constantly stood in this dressing room and bemoaned her absence, eagerly awaiting the day she would fill it.

One of the drawers in the jewelry armoire was open, and Haesel was unable to look away. Marvolo wasn't careless; he had left it open on purpose, to garner her attention. She padded over and picked up the large, velvet box. Haesel lifted the lid and then gasped in awe.

"Do you like it?"

Haesel spun around to see Marvolo was leaning against the doorframe of another door, one that likely led into the bedchamber. His hair was somewhat unruly, as if he had just run his fingers through it several times.

"What are you doing here?" asked Haesel. He was supposed to be off with her father and brother. Her mother never would have allowed her in here alone if she knew Marvolo would be present.

"I felt you enter our rooms. I couldn't keep away," he confessed. "Do you want me to leave, my lady? I would not want my presence to make you uncomfortable." Marvolo straightened as he waited for her answer.

Even though she knew she should send him away, she didn't. She couldn't. This felt so real, so _right_. They belonged here—together. "Please stay," whispered Haesel.

Marvolo's shoulders relaxed as he strode toward her. His eyes sparkled with delight, and he stared hungrily at her. "Do you like it?" he repeated as he touched the velvet box, his fingers brushing along hers.

Haesel tore her gaze away from his enticing smile and looked at the necklace once more. A serpent, of what she believed to be mithril, held the most elaborate and unique pendant she had ever seen. The serpent was perfect in detail, each individual scale visible, and held a blue diamond the size of a Galleon in its mouth. She usually hated shiny things, but . . . "It's stunning," she breathed.

Smirking, Marvolo petted the mithril snake. "Salazar crafted it for his wife. He personally imbued the diamond with protection charms and rituals, including blood magic. It's able to stop the Killing Curse. The serpent, Jörmungandr, was thus named because Salazar believed if the serpent ever let go of the protection stone, Salazar's world would end." Marvolo cupped Haesel's cheek. "I cannot fault him for that."

_My world would end if anything happened to you_, his magic whispered to her. Haesel had never heard him so clearly before.

_As would mine_, she replied.

"Two days before Salazar finished it, his wife was murdered by a riot of _Muggles_. They burned her at the stake." Marvolo's eyes flashed crimson. "I will not chance losing you, my lady. Promise me that you'll always wear it," he demanded.

Muggles had burned Salazar Slytherin's wife at the stake? That explained his hatred of all things Muggle, and why he didn't want Muggle-borns to attend Hogwarts. History had done the man a great injustice. How would her ancestor, Godric Gryffindor, have felt if Muggles had murdered his wife? Godric was infamous for loving battle and duels; he wouldn't have tolerated such treachery either.

Haesel turned her head and kissed Marvolo's palm as his magic urged her to give her word. Even if his magic had been silent, she still would have complied. The desperation in his eyes was unnerving, bordering on insanity, and she didn't want to know what phantoms of the mind taunted him. She would do everything in her power—which wasn't insignificant—to ensure that nothing stole her away from him and tipped the balance.

"I swear to you, Lord Slytherin, that I will never remove the pendant once it's mine," said Haesel. A tendril of her magic burrowed into his magical core and twined around it. They both shivered.

Marvolo nodded, eyes conveying his gratitude as he removed the necklace from the box. Instead of moving behind her, Marvolo leaned forward. His chest brushed her breasts and his breath skittered along her neck as he hissed instructions to the serpent. Its tail unwound, and then slithered across her skin until her neck was completely encircled. Haesel felt Marvolo's magic seal it, the metal heating, and knew instantly that only he would ever be able to remove it. Haesel also knew he never would, and she could find no fault in that. She only wished she had something similar to give him; the thought of life without him made her magic roil with horror. They were too deeply entwined to ever separate and maintain their sanity.

When his lips pressed to her neck, kissing beside the length of the serpent, she dropped the box. The final kiss was light, almost not-there, and against the swell of her breasts, where the diamond lay. Haesel's hands trembled as her stomach fluttered wildly. "M-Marvolo."

Marvolo groaned against her skin, and then leaned back. He rose to his full height. His eyes burned down at her like molten lava, and Haesel wanted to let it consume her. "I love it when you say my name," Marvolo said, fingers gripping hers possessively. "You never speak my name when you know others are around, only when we're in private. It's so—intimate." She shuddered at the husky sound of his voice. "Come, Haesel," he purred.

Haesel understood what he meant. The few times he had addressed her by her name alone were precious. Her name sounded different on his lips than on anyone else's. It sounded . . . treasured, perhaps?

When Marvolo started walking toward the door he had entered the dressing room through, Haesel's breathing sped up. He was leading her into their future bedchamber, and no one was around to chaperone them. Her stomach knotted with emotions, unease and curiosity chief among them. Before she could offer a token protest, they crossed the threshold.

The room could have been covered in cobwebs and dust. It could have had marble flooring, or stone, or hardwood. The walls could have been blank, or lined with priceless works of art. Haesel paid no attention to her surrounding, because her gaze had locked onto the enormous bed the moment she passed over the threshold.

Its four posts were magnificently carved, and the bedstead itself was definitely from the Medieval era. She wondered if it had been in Slytherin's vault. Morgana knew the Potters possessed vaults full of nothing but furniture that wasn't being used. In fact, she planned to use several of the pieces to refurnish Riddle Manor.

Marvolo led her to the bed, and then halted. She felt his gaze on her as she reached forward and touched the nearest post. It radiated warmth beneath her fingers, just as her wand did. "Holly."

"Yes."

"For protection from illnesses, fire, and evil witchcraft," she said, memories surfacing. She had researched holly thoroughly after she got her wand, desiring to know all of its properties.

"Yes."

"Dark twin of the oak, and king of the forests for six months of the year. Always strong, always in bloom, refusing to succumb to the harsh frigidity of winter. Always living and thriving—unconquerable," she whispered. "Ever triumphant."

"As our bonding will be," purred Marvolo.

"Yes," she agreed. Haesel swallowed as she remembered the last important quality. Taking into account all she knew of it, it was no wonder Marvolo had insisted their bed be created from holly wood. "Holly," Haesel breathed, "for life and . . . fertility."

Marvolo hissed something in that seductive, indecipherable language, eyes blazing, and then grasped her waist. He spun her around until her back was to the post, and then he carefully pushed her against it. Another unintelligible hiss escaped him, and then his mouth was on hers. Marvolo devoured her, sending her thoughts into a tailspin. All thought of propriety—or lack thereof—vanished as she yielded her mouth to him. Haesel reached up and thrust her hands into his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.

When he pressed fully against her, caging her safely in his arms, their magic went wild. It flared around them, traveling out from their bodies. Their magic melded, and then slithered into the floor, ceiling, and walls. Haesel felt the manor come alive for them as they imbued it with their combined magic. The blankness she had felt upon entering a manor with no ancestral magic began to fade.

Haesel's tongue battled with Marvolo's as he moaned into her mouth, sending her senses into a frenzy. She had never felt like this before. _It was_, she nearly snorted at the thought, _magical_. Just as Marvolo's hands slipped downward the barest bit, she felt the last of the manor come to life.

Gasping, Marvolo leapt away from her. He buried his head in his hands as she desperately tried to inhale enough oxygen to satisfy her lungs. The loose corset felt unbearably restraining. "Forgive me, my lady," Marvolo groaned.

"For what?" asked Haesel. Surely there was nothing to forgive.

His hands dropped then, and she almost choked when she saw the expression in his eyes. It was uncontrolled, wild, and wanton. The scent of hemlock flooded the air as he carefully took one step backward. Marvolo's magic writhed at the additional distance, and tasted primal—dangerous.

"For losing control," he gritted out as he retreated another step. "I'm a danger to you."

Haesel's heart ached with each word he spoke. He might fear for her safety in his presence, but she never would—not even if he went completely feral. She caressed her new pendant and then closed the distance between them, hating each step he took away from her. Marvolo's back met a wall, and Haesel paused before him, concern and trust overwhelming her. She kissed his chest, right over his heart, as his whole body sought to both greet her and lurch away.

After glancing up at him through her eyelashes, Haesel stated, "Though I have no intention of doing so, Marvolo, you are the only man I would ever trust to honor me in the Ancient Ways, under the Olde Magick." His chest stilled beneath her hands as he stopped breathing. "If I know nothing else in this world, I know that my virtue is safe with you."

Haesel stood on tiptoe, kissed Marvolo's unmoving lips, and then left the room. She knew her family would notice the difference in the manor, and hoped they would assume a ward had blocked them from sensing the manor's magic before now. A few, quick spells smoothed out her robes and hair and reduced the swelling of her lips. She couldn't do anything about the twinkle in her eyes; her mother would spot a glamour charm the moment she stepped back into the corridor. It could be explained away as joy, of course. That would do.

What Haesel did know, without a doubt, was that she needed to invent an excuse for why she was suddenly in possession of a priceless diamond necklace.

* * *

Tonight. It would be tonight.

Marvolo breathed in deeply and felt the family magic of his _home_—the magic of his love mingled with the intoxicating scent of his beloved's unbridled power. For a home it now was. It might have been once—in his father's lifetime—but that had been decades ago when it had been infected by the Muggle scum from which he was bred.

And his darling didn't care. Haesel didn't mind that he was a half-blood; she only kissed him deeper and brushed away the first tear he had cried since he was a child.

"Your father was horrible," she had murmured against his lips when they had been able to steal a moment away from their chaperones earlier that week at Malfoy Manor. "But he gave me you."

Marvolo could not fault this logic. As vexatious and childish as he found Heir Potter, the man had created Haesel. In the dark of the night, as the magic of Riddle Manor washed over him, and he had already sent out his magic to his darling fiancée, he would sometimes wonder what would have happened if James Potter had been successful with that Muggle-born of his. Haesel had told him of the "Potter Pact" as she and her brother jokingly called it. If that Mudblood wench hadn't been so dishonorable as to suggest that she wouldn't marry Heir Potter if he were the last wizard living, so much could have been different.

Would Heir Potter have brought her around before he reached his seventeenth year?

Marvolo was now privy to Potter family history, and had become aware of a stray fond comment from Lady Isadore that the Mudblood had dared to declare her love Potter's final year at Hogwarts. . . .

Heir Potter had already, fortunately, fallen for Lady Isadore, but what if he had run back to that Mudblood?

What would his Haesel be like? Would she have been born, but different? Would magic have created someone so powerful? Would Heir Potter even have had a daughter; would her magic have called to him? With the taste of a Muggle taint, would he have answered despite the fact that Marvolo was nearly completely certain he had been entranced—if not in love—with her essence since that second tide?

What would the future have held?

It was torture.

Two days ago, when he knew that Haesel was at a friend's private birthday celebration—Lady Rose Zeller, he believed—Marvolo's curiosity had been peaked and he decided not to control the impulse.

And now, sitting here, he saw it—almost as if it were a vision. Heir James marrying this filth before him. A son with messy black hair and her green eyes. He was there, pale, snake-like. . . . Something must have changed earlier. He was Lord Voldemort, not Lord Slytherin—but how? It didn't matter, for then there was a green flash, a cry of a baby, a lightning bolt scar, and he was gone and yet not. He struggled again and again to come back to come back, until he did, and then—and then—a battle and his final death—and no beautiful, intelligent, cheeky Haesel in his arms. Never. This _woman_ could have taken that away from him. Could have taken Haesel before she had even been conceived and, for a brief moment, he despised this Mudblood so much that he wouldn't be surprised if his eyes had flashed red.

He sent out his magic, quiet, a whisper, so that his beloved would not be disturbed and because he _needed _her in that moment. Marvolo knew she found Lady Rose to be sweet and genteel, and the last thing Haesel needed was to worry about him potentially meeting her father's youthful infatuation.

The woman had married a half-blood. Her husband's father was Muggle; his mother had been stripped of her title, and so she was simply Professor Lily Snape. If she hadn't such a position, she would just be Lily Snape—the lowest of the low. Marrying a half-blood was certainly a tour-de-force, though not an entirely uncommon one, but she could have been "Mrs. Potter" if she had married Heir Potter. And if certain rituals had been performed, her children could have been "Master Henry" and "Miss Haesel," assuming she liked those names.

Marvolo knew that Heir Potter liked the letter "H" for whatever reason. The wizard jokingly said he had gotten a good feeling with it, but Marvolo's beloved had been named by her mother. Hazel trees gave wisdom and inspiration, traits she hoped her eldest would possess. Lady Isadore was a student of Druidic lore, of which Marvolo heartily approved.

Marvolo had felt Lily Snape's presence in Muggle London and had been surprised. He had ordered his house-elf to find something suitable for a well-dressed Muggle gentleman that was casual but smart. An hour later, he had a white button down shirt and charcoal trousers. He rolled up his sleeves and, hiding his wand in a holster on his leg, Apparated to London.

Lily Snape was sitting alone in a crowded café, a notebook and Muggle pen in her hand, a newspaper that appeared Muggle discarded on the seat beside her. Marvolo entered and ordered Earl Grey before approaching the table. "Is this seat taken?" he asked, his voice like silk. "There are no free tables."

Lily looked up, her eyes blurred with her thoughts, before a forced smile appeared on her face. "Of course." She hastily removed the paper from the chair. "I've given up on my husband getting away from his work." Her voice was tired and wary, as if she hadn't expected Severus Snape to appear at all.

"That's too bad," Marvolo commented, accepting the paper she offered. Her hair was almost lovely, a lackluster auburn. Her almond eyes shone an emerald green, but something had extinguished their natural life. "What does he do, if I may ask?"

Lily sighed, closing her book. "He's a chemistry professor at a public school."

Marvolo nodded in acknowledgment. "Married to his work?" he guessed. Something was making this woman unhappy.

"In a way," Lily evaded before turning her sharp eyes on him. "What brings you here on such a nice day?"

"My fiancée is at a friend's birthday party," he answered truthfully, the Muggle vernacular flowing through his lips like the venom of a snake.

Lily looked at him appraisingly. "My congratulations." It was said as if by rote. "Don't marry her if you don't love her," she advised. Lily flipped a piece of hair behind her ear and Marvolo noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the lines marring her face, as if she were a Muggle and not a witch. "Even if she loves you, it's not worth it. Take it from someone who knows." She mumbled the last bit.

"I'll take that under advisement," he responded coldly.

A laugh, like bells turned sour, escaped her lips as Marvolo was served his tea. "Forgive me. You are young yet. You hear words of love or speak them because it is what's done. You are infatuated, or perhaps she is an old friend and you think 'I love her,' but you're not _in love_ with her." She turned her head to look at the passersby. "Perhaps you think you'll fall in love, because you have once before. It's hopeless, though."

Marvolo took a sip of his tea. For a Muggle concoction, it wasn't horrendous.

Lily turned back to him again. "Forgive me. The musings of a woman who has been married for nearly two decades. I shouldn't burden you with such."

"Not at all," Marvolo responded politely. Lily might have been glorious once, but marriage had not suited her. She was still in love with his future father-in-law, it would seem. Marvolo doubted that James had held a single tender thought for her in the past twenty years.

"Tell me about her," Lily said suddenly. "This love of your life."

"She's beautiful, strong, her heart beats with honor and a sense of decency. If she's angry then she lets me know it." Marvolo couldn't help but smile.

"How lovely."

"I believe you are acquainted with her, Professor Snape." He let his eyes flash red ever-so-slightly to show his displeasure.

Lily breathed in deeply. "Who are you?"

"Lord Slytherin," he answered. "I was curious about you," Marvolo said honestly to the shock written over her face. "I realize that you and your husband may perhaps not have reason to like Master Potter or Lady Haesel, but I would consider it a due owed for at least my rank—if not theirs—if the rest of their years were free of harassment because of a mistake that _you_, madam, made many years ago."

"How dare you—?" she breathed indignantly, no longer quite a shadow of the woman she might once have been.

"How dare _you_?" Marvolo answered carefully. "Do not make me spell it out to you, or give your husband a visit at Hogwarts, where I presume he is."

Lily's jaw clenched in anger.

"Till later, Professor Snape," he said haughtily, before getting up and just leaving.

That had been days ago, and now—tonight—was the night of his engagement ball. If only it were his bonding. Marvolo was dressed impeccably in the green and silver robes of Slytherin House. His hair shone slightly dark red in the candlelight, his eyes bright with repressed excitement. Soon he would hold his beloved in his arms—and then, then he had but to wait, and she would be his for all of eternity. He would never let her go, and he would never die, and nor would she. He would find a way.

He still had hours left, and he leaned against the mantle in the main receiving room. The perfectly engraved invitation to tonight was placed beside a moving picture of the two of them, taken by Henry, the cheeky brat. Heir Malfoy and Lady Rana had already taken flight on their Abraxans. Marvolo's hands were around his lady's waist, but before he could lift her, she had leaned up and kissed him: softly, sweetly. The moment was private, but something predatory in Marvolo was glad he had this reminder of the love that flowed between the two of them. He would be sure, when Lady Iolanthe was older, that he repaid the favor.

Marvolo heard the Floo activate and slipped the invitation in front of the moving photograph. A more suitable one of Lady Haesel wearing robes of Potter gold and smiling at him over her shoulder, as he escorted her to an afternoon soiree, was on display.

He felt her immediately and, before he could make it to the door, Haesel burst forward, wearing nothing but a sweeping silk dressing gown that was as blue as her beautiful eyes.

Within less than a moment she was in his arms, kissing him deeply. Marvolo could barely restrain himself as his hand fisted in her loose curls and he bore her toward the sofa that had been reupholstered to her specific tastes. "Shouldn't you—?" he began to ask, but she kissed him as if her life depended on it. And who was he to deny his lady?

Finally, she began to quiet beneath him. Marvolo breathed in her breath, glorying in the feel of her lying beneath her. "Haesel?" he questioned, his voice hoarse with repressed urges. He would like nothing more than to bear her to their room and bond with her in the Ancient Ways that very moment. His fingers danced across the Slytherin pendant that was about her neck, and a shaky smile quivered on her lips.

"I—" she tried to explain, before looking away. "Why must we wait?"

He sighed and leaned his forehead against her temple. "Custom demands it. You shouldn't be alone with me in my home, my darling."

"I know, and yet I can't bring myself to care—"

"True," Marvolo murmured.

"Then," Haesel hesitated, biting on her lower lip before looking directly into his eyes. He saw her passion, her certainty, and her uncompromising idea of what was _right_. "Run away with me."

Marvolo pulled away, shocked. She wanted to—?

"You know you've thought of it," she murmured, leaning upward and kissing his unresponsive lips. "Why not tonight?"

"But you deserve—"

"To sleep with your arms wrapped around me, as well as your magic," Haesel whispered. "The thought of spending months alone at Hogwarts makes me ill." She shivered and pulled him flush against her. "Can you get a Druidic Priest? No one would dare defy Lord Slytherin. My family will be angry at first, but I know they'll forgive us. It's what I want."

"Are you certain, my darling?" Marvolo asked, stroking her hair away from her temple. She was so beautiful in her disarray. "You've had little time to consider an engagement, let alone had its full time to consider if I'm who you truly want." _But we both know you do_, he thought. Still, he could not bear for her to change her mind. Marvolo never wanted to see her bright eyes dull, face lined with bitterness, as Lily Snape's had been.

Haesel smiled sweetly. Leaning up and whispering, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear and making him close his eyes in bliss, she said simply, "Remember, Marvolo, my love. _I called you_."

* * *

**Note:** Crazy busy week is crazy busy, but not so busy that my love for you all has diminished. Thank you for your patience, especially with my occasionally slow replies to your wonderful reviews. -Ell


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Haesel marched down the hallway of Potter Manor, knees weakening with each step. What in the world was Marvolo doing? Her magic was going haywire. And her body was reacting to it as if he were present, kissing every inch of her body in excruciatingly slow fashion. Her breathing sped up, and she felt her cheeks burn. The ache for him was growing, and it wasn't at all proper. They weren't bonded; she shouldn't feel like this. Not yet.

Mortified, Haesel threw open the door to the billiards room and yelled, "What did you do, Dad?" It was only after the noise in the room vanished that she thought to take a look around; the billiards room was occupied by more than her father. Morgana, now most of the men in her family were witness to her hollering like a shrew and panting as if she had been actively engaged in a rigorous activity of some sort.

Her Uncle Valerius scrutinized her with a pinched look on his face, before glaring at James. "You didn't."

James laughed and laughed, Sirius joining him shortly thereafter, clearly 'in' on whatever joke they had played.

"Oh, he did all right!" Sirius said. "And I can't believe he fell for it. Guess Lord Slytherin _is_ disgustingly smitten with my little goddaughter."

"What did you do?" Haesel demanded, more worried by the minute. She tried to think of options, but nothing came to mind. How could they have possibly made Marvolo's magic do this to her?

"What were you thinking?" Valerius asked, derision in his voice. He normally got on brilliantly with her dad, but not when she was involved. Her Uncle Valerius always took her side and watched out for her. She had lost count of how many times he had protected her at Hogwarts—and those were just the ones that she knew about! She knew there had to be more, and several of those times could likely explain some of the injuries Madam Pomfrey had healed over the past four or so years.

"The look on his face! Oh, I wish I could see it!" James snorted and clapped a hand over his face, as if to block the sound. "I can't believe he fell for it!"

"Cancel it. Immediately!" ordered Valerius. His voice brooked no argument, and James flinched at the tone, likely because Valerius had copied it from his older sister—her mother.

"B-But why?" Sirius inquired through his sniggers. "It's obviously working."

"And not just on Lord Slytherin, you dolt!" snapped Valerius.

As the attention in the room settled on her, Haesel winced and wrapped her arms around herself. It felt like she was being crushed by a heavy weight atop her, and could not escape. She was trapped and had no idea what was happening, or why. "Stop it!" she screamed, tears in her eyes. Something was wrong, some pull on her magic, and the phantom person covering her on something soft only made it worse.

Then, it was gone. Just like that.

Valerius closed the distance between them and folded her in his arms. "Hey, little lamb, you're safe. I'm here."

"You'll behead the werewolves that come my way," she whispered. Uncle Valerius was always insisting that she was too innocent for her own good (though he then contradicted himself by saying he wouldn't have her any other way). So she had told him to kill everything that came to hurt her, so she could stay that way; it had been a joke, but he had taken it seriously.

"Always," Valerius promised.

"Haesel? You okay?" asked James, abashed. He took a step toward her, but her glare stopped him in place. He leaned his weight on the cue.

"What was that?" she asked. Haesel wasn't sure if she wanted an answer, though. Because it was almost impossible to remain upset with her dad when he was giving her _that_ look. Still, she needed to know what had happened. It had been . . . disconcerting to say the least. Overwhelming, and altogether wrong. Even as Marvolo's magic had somehow manipulated hers—and it sounded like that was her dad's and Siri's doing—the deepest part of her had fought it. Some instinct or voice, perhaps Magic itself, had whispered that such things were not appropriate before her bonding.

Her magic combined with Marvolo's had never felt _wrong_ before. The memory of whatever it was made her feel ill.

"I just wanted to mess with your precious Marvolo a bit, seeing as he's going to be taking you away from me soon." James met her gaze squarely. "I know you don't even plan on waiting until you graduate. I'm happy for you, darling, but Yule is so . . ." James swiped a hand beneath his teary eyes. "Anyway, I used the family magic to send him a solid illusion of you."

"Why on earth would you do that?" The Potter Family illusions were infallible, and their most closely held secret. Only the Head or Heir of the family could utilize them. Otherwise she and Henry would have sent the blasted illusions to school on occasion to spend some time away from all the adulation.

James ducked his head and shrugged. "I thought it would serve as a distraction so you wouldn't feel his nervous anticipation and anxiousness on top of your own." He rubbed his neck. "The illusion was supposed to say whatever he most wanted to hear; I didn't imagine it would affect you at all. I'm sorry, darling."

What he most wanted to hear? "Excuse me," mumbled Haesel, pausing only to kiss Valerius's cheek before leaving the room. What had her illusion self said that resulted in the _wrong, trapped_ feeling? Obviously something very amorous. Perhaps an offer to bond in the Ancient Ways under the Olde Magick? But that made no sense, because she had told him only days ago that she had no intention of doing so. Surely not a suggestion of elopement! She snorted at the mere thought. That was utterly ridiculous! She would never dream of bonding without her family's presence.

What did that leave?

Haesel sighed and entered her bedchamber, unconsciously spreading her arms outward as her mother and grandmothers undressed her and led her into the bathroom. She sank into the hot water and began picking at her nails.

"Stop that, Haesel. You'll chip the paint," Isadore admonished.

"Yes, Mum," she absently replied, though she kept picking.

She loved Marvolo; he was her lord—there was no question of that. The jeweled necklace lying between her breasts (and, oh, it had been _so much fun_ to explain _that_ to her mother) proved both of their feelings were steadfast. However, what had just happened made her truly realize the vast differences caused by their life experiences.

"Get out of the bath, darling," Dorea said.

"Yes, Grandmama." Haesel stood beneath the golden tree and let the family magic dry her, more cognizant of its presence and power than ever before.

Marvolo was more than fifty years her senior. He had traveled widely, learned exotic magic, and experienced things she had not. And, as had been made blatantly clear to her not an hour ago, had expertise in intimate matters—something she hadn't considered before. She knew her father had only been with her mother, and Henry would never even think of being with anyone but Iolanthe, but the same could not be said for her Marvolo.

"I think he expects certain . . . things," whispered Haesel.

Her mother halted, hands still twisted up in Haesel's hair as the brush ceased smoothing out the strands. "How do you feel about that?" Isadore asked softly.

Haesel met her Grandmother Vaisey's eyes in the mirror; they were identical to hers and her mother's. "I . . . I love him," she said resolutely, "but I'm not ready for that."

"Then he vill vait." The accent was still strong after a lifetime spent in England. It was hard to imagine that Haesel might never have been born if the Krums hadn't chosen a foreign fostering for their second daughter.

"What if he doesn't want to, Nana?" Because his intense desire and passion had been revealed to her in unmistakable clarity. How long could she expect him to bridle his passions? And how long would he be willing to wait? Because this was something she could not condone rushing into. This was giving her virtue, her very self, to a man.

"He luffs you child; he vill vait." Her Nana patted her cheek lightly.

"Okay," said Haesel. "Okay." She closed her eyes to shut out all her worries, to force them inside a box and bury it deep in her mind, where no one could find it. When she returned her attention to her surroundings, she was alone in her bedchamber. Music drifted through the corridors, and she knew that it must be about time for her and Marvolo to enter the ballroom together.

She opened her door and then stopped. "Uncle Valerius?" His blond hair hung down to his shoulders in soft waves, and his chocolaty eyes were smiling at her.

"Henry was making googly eyes at the little Malfoy girl. I offered to escort you." He proffered his arm.

"Thank you." Haesel placed hers atop it, before tangling their fingers and swinging their arms with each step.

Before they rounded the last corner, Valerius stopped walking. Haesel tilted her head back and asked, "What's wrong?"

"You might have chosen him as your lord, little lamb, but I think you're forgetting something." Solemn, again. He was so serious.

"And what's that?" she inquired.

Valerius leaned down and breathed the answer in her ear. "That you're _his lady_."

Haesel staggered for a moment and leaned her head against his chest. Uncle Valerius was right. She hadn't been giving that any consideration. If she felt the need to please Marvolo and make him happy, surely he felt the same in return, with an added sense of protection—if only because he was a member of the oligarchy and their magic prodded them to guide and guard. Marvolo would never push for more than she was willing to give, no matter how much he might anticipate their bonding.

"Thank you."

"No problem, little lamb. Now, let's hurry up. Or else everyone will think you've snubbed Lord Slytherin at your own engagement ball," he teased.

With more confidence in her step, Haesel turned the corner. Marvolo waited for her, his eyes speaking nothing but appreciation as they perused her. The gown was ridiculously expensive, but very flattering. It fit like a glove from her chest to the bottom of her bum, and then the skirt flared out in a dramatic fashion, swishing with each step she took. Her shoulders were bare, but sleeves started at her upper arms and swept down in the shape of petals to cover her hands—the ends dragging on the floor and slit all the way up. It shimmered like the priciest of pearls and, judging by the awe on Marvolo's face, her mother and grandmother had chosen wisely.

"I'll leave you here," Valerius said before kissing her cheek. He nodded once to Marvolo and then entered the ballroom and fired a set of golden sparks into the air.

Marvolo grasped her hands and kissed the insides of her wrists. "Darling, Haesel, Yule cannot come fast enough."

Haesel inhaled deeply, tore her gaze from his, and studied the hem of her skirt. "And if Yule comes too soon—for me?"

The ballroom quieted, and she could just hear her grandfather Charlus beginning their official introductions—titles and all.

Marvolo placed one finger beneath her chin and lifted her head. "Then I shall eagerly await Imbolc. And if that's too soon, I shall await Ostara. And if that's too soon, I shall await Beltane. And if that's too soon, I shall await Litha. And if that's too soon, I shall await Lughnassadh. And if that's too soon, I shall await Mabon. And if that's too soon, I shall await Samhain. And if that's too soon, my beloved, then I shall await Yule next year—and every following year—until you're ready."

What an amazing man she had chosen, even more so than she had previously believed.

Haesel beamed at him and then studiously glanced down at her fingernails. "I'll have to check my calendar and get back to you about next Yule. I'm afraid this year's is already booked."

"Oh?" Marvolo narrowed his eyes.

Nodding, Haesel smirked cheekily. "Indeed. An extremely rich and devastatingly handsome man has asked me to bond with him on Yule. I'm simply unavailable."

"You don't say." Marvolo tugged her closer.

"Oh, but I do! He's horribly possessive. And, from what I've learned, much too powerful for his own good. He's attracted to it, you see? That's why he found me, of course. And since I'm the only witch who's prestigious enough for him, well, I had to put the poor fellow out of his misery. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, yes. It's only proper," Marvolo breathed against her lips.

"I can't promise I'll be ready this Yule," Haesel confessed, tears in her eyes. "But I'll try."

Marvolo squeezed her hands and nuzzled her cheek. "I _can_ promise I'll wait as long as you need." His magic testified his words were the truth, and sealed them to her. "Because you, Lady Haesel Potter," he said with a wry twist to his lips that she didn't quite comprehend, "_called me_." He took a step to the side and set her arm atop his, before leading her into the ballroom.

Haesel almost didn't hear his final whispered words, because the applause was so loud at their entrance. But even if her ears had missed them, his magic had declared them so emphatically that she couldn't have overlooked them.

_And I came_.

* * *

**Note:** Ta~Da! So . . . loving or hating the ending? This is hot off the press, as in, I literally just wrote it. Lol. I tried to wrap it all up, and hope I succeeded. Thank you for the tons and tons of support you all have given this plunny that took over my brain and spread to Cen's. I've read every single review, and I apologize for being behind in replies; I will get to them. Promise. Yes, the Henry/Iolanthe will be coming (probably within two weeks, but no guarantee on that). My schedule is slammed for a while, including two weekends out-of-state, but I will get it written before my hiatus. Again, I'm honored by all the support I've received. You people are epic; I love you! :) -Ell


	14. Extra Epilogue

**Extra Epilogue**

Iolanthe Malfoy swallowed the bile in her throat and stilled. The last thing she wanted was to alert Romilda Vane and her cohorts to the knowledge that they weren't plotting in private.

"Do you really think it will work?"

"Of course!" said Romilda, voice laced with smug superiority. "Henry's a Potter, after all, and they are unbearably honorable. All I have to do is give him my maiden's kiss in front of a group of people. Then he will have no choice but to make me the future Lady Potter. Anything else would shame his family name."

Iolanthe squeezed her eyes shut and placed one hand over her mouth, while she fought the urge to be ill. How dare Romilda plan something so despicable! Henry, _her Henry_, was an honorable wizard, while Romilda acted without honor entirely. She had known keeping their betrothal a secret would make things difficult, but she hadn't wanted all the extra attention. Now the need for privacy was coming back to haunt her.

Earlier this week she had barely stopped a Muggle-born from dosing Henry with love potions. And just last week, a half-blood from Slytherin had attempted to appear in a compromising position with him.

Iolanthe had hoped to wait until she was older . . . but now she couldn't. She wasn't sleeping, and she could hardly keep anything in her stomach. The thought of anyone managing to steal Henry away from her was her worst nightmare. She had lost almost ten pounds in the past month alone, and with her already slender figure, she needed to keep her weight up before she dwindled away to skin and bones.

Would Henry still care for her if she were too skinny?

_Don't be stupid. He'll always love me. He promised_, she told herself.

She had been out of sorts for months, now. Henry had spent the past summer at one of Marvolo and Haesel's villas, visiting his brand new niece and nephew: Merope and Merlin. (The scandal over such a daring name for his heir had still to die down months later.) And though he had written her frequently, she hadn't seen him. Then, while they were at Hogwarts, they rarely interacted, per her own request.

Iolanthe had thought it was the wise decision, but now she regretted it more than anything. If she hadn't been afraid of bullying, or being outed as a Matchmaker, none of this would be happening.

Where was her faith?

Quietly, she spun on her heel and walked through the corridors and down the staircases. Dinner would have surely begun while she was eavesdropping, and she was ready to settle this matter. The opinions and actions of others no longer mattered to her; she had turned fifteen the night before, and was now old enough to legally bond. This night, tonight, by Morgana, she would get some sleep!

Henry would guarantee it. She knew he would.

Iolanthe paused for a moment in the entrance hall to marshal her courage, and then lifted her head imperiously and strolled into the great hall. She was a Malfoy, the future Lady Potter, and she refused to be cowed by brainless, dishonorable chits who thought that they could steal Henry away from her. She was liable to kill Romilda if the chit kissed him, and spending her life in Azkaban was not one of her goals.

Not unaware of the wizards who eyed her with more than friendly interest—not that she would ever give them the time of day (Henry was _it_ for her, and her abilities showed just how truly incompatible they all were)—she bypassed the Hufflepuff table. Her resolve wavered for just a moment as she approached the Gryffindor table, due to the enormous amount of attention she had drawn. Even after all these years, she could still feel Lacerta's judgmental and unforgiving gaze on her.

With a daring that would have scandalized her mother, Iolanthe stopped behind Henry and feathered her fingers through his messy golden hair. He fell silent the moment she touched him, but leaned his head back into her grasp. "Henry, dear, I'm tired." A tidal wave of gasps echoed through the near-silent room at her pronouncement.

Iolanthe quivered, fearing the repercussions of her actions, but not regretting them. She couldn't stand to be apart from him any longer. She felt raw and open to the world, exposed, and she needed his love and protection to feel safe—just as she knew he needed to protect her. The secret had been harming him as much as her.

"Me too, Darling Io. Me too," whispered Henry. The gasps that followed were twice as loud as before. He turned in his seat and stood up, towering over her. Tenderly, he folded her against his chest. "What would you have me do, darling?" he breathed.

"I'm fifteen now. We've waited long enough," she answered. Was that too forthright? Was Henry ready for the commitment of a full soul-bonding? Was she pushing him too hard, too fast, for fear of losing him?

His grip tightened fiercely as his magic rankled with possessiveness. Before she could speak another word, he stepped to the side and guided her from the room, his arm solidly about her waist. She leaned against him, allowing him to hold her slight weight, exhaustion making spots dance before her eyes. Soon enough he was carrying her up the last flight of stairs, stopping only long enough to give the password to the Head Boy's chambers.

"Iolanthe, what's wrong?" asked Henry, voice frantic as she lay listlessly in his arms. His grip was gentle as he supported her, but she felt him shake with fear when his hands completely encircled her waist; she hadn't been this thin since she was a child. "Are you ill? Should I get Pomfrey?" His voice was hard and threatening, as if he wanted to cast the Killing Curse at whatever plagued her.

"I can't sleep. I can barely eat," she confessed, vision somewhat blurry. "They keep plotting to take you away from me, and I can't let them. I love you, Henry. I love you so much that I'm sick with it." Her hands fisted in his shirt as she clung to him. "I wasn't wrong all those years ago, was I? You do love me best, don't you?" There was a begging quality to her tone that made her nauseous; she despised that weakness in a witch's character, and hated it doubly when it appeared in her own voice.

"Of course! I love you more than life itself," Henry answered as he sat on the sofa and settled her at his side. "Who's plotting? And what are they plotting?" Henry demanded.

"Romilda, the Slytherin, _the Mudblood_," she hissed spitefully, completely unlike her usual temperament. "They're trying to compromise you, to drug you, to"—she rubbed her stinging eyes—"she had potions . . . _line theft_ . . ." Iolanthe shifted until she was sitting on his lap and securely in his arms. "Promise me, Henry, that all of your children will be mine." Her throat closed, and she almost didn't get the words out. That had been her greatest fear as she uncovered each new scheme—that someone would succeed, that one of the heartless witches would forcibly steal Henry from her. And then, someday in the future, she would be shopping in Diagon Alley, lifeless and broken, and she would see children with his eyes and another witch's hair, or his hair and another witch's eyes. They would look nothing like her—no trace of her heritage and blood giving them spark.

Henry cupped her chin gently and met her tortured gaze with burning aureate eyes. "I swear on Haesel's life that every child of my loins will also be a child of yours." The vow was so resolute that his magic sounded like a shot from a cannon.

Iolanthe collapsed fully against him, like a puppet whose strings had been sliced. "Thank you." Her eyelashes fluttered down, as that overwhelming fear died within her.

"Why did you mention your birthday?" asked Henry as he removed the elaborate comb from her hair; he had given it to her for her thirteenth birthday. It was an ivory gryphon in midflight, a symbol of loyalty and honesty, as well as part of his family's history. Her long, golden curls fell from the elegant twist and spilled over them, blanketing them in pale silk. Henry groaned and nuzzled her hair before stroking the comb through her locks.

"You know why," she breathed, afraid to say the words. What if he thought she was too young? What if he thought she wasn't ready? Most witches didn't bond until after their graduation. Morgana, Lady Haesel and Lord Marvolo were the victims of multiple rumors and great speculation when they didn't bond until the Yule _after_ Haesel had graduated.

"I need the words, darling."

Iolanthe whimpered and cleaved to Henry, wishing her gift away. "The threads are driving me mental," she whispered. "It's bad enough to see how many of the witches lust after you, with their impure emotions, but then . . ." She shuddered and burrowed closer.

Henry inhaled sharply. "The secret you share with my sister . . . Darling, are you a Matchmaker?" He was stunned, worried, and furious. She could only nod. "How bad is it?"

"It's fine, Henry. There's no need—"

"Don't lie to me, Iolanthe. _Never lie to me_. But especially not about anything that could affect your health or safety." All at once, the last traces of childhood faded from Henry's face, leaving him a man—protective and powerful. "I, of all people, am not ignorant of your beauty, darling." He kissed her forehead gently. "How bad is it?"

"Without being bonded, there are no filters for my power," she confessed softly. "There are a f-few who f-frighten me on occasion." The lecherous feeling of the threads some of the wizards formed, aimed at her, hadn't helped her sickness any. Some had been intrigued before this year, but never . . . truly desirous.

Henry's magic erupted at her words and poured over her from head to toe, cloaking her in the power of the Potter family. For the first time in months, she felt completely safe.

"Have they tried anything?" he growled.

Iolanthe's thoughts briefly centered on her sister, and Lacerta's occasional companion: Uriah Urquhart. As much as she didn't want to think her sister would help a pureblood intentionally compromise her, she couldn't rule it out. After all, if Iolanthe were to be compromised the betrothal contract would be invalid and Henry would, once again, be available. "Not yet," she breathed.

The mirror above the mantelpiece exploded in a shower of glass, but not one piece of it met her tender flesh. "Not ever!" Henry snarled, eyes glowing with power.

She lay still against him, waiting for his rage to calm. It didn't. If anything, it worsened with each passing second, as if he were witnessing one demented tragedy after another. Iolanthe lifted an unsteady hand and stroked his cheek. "Shh, my love. I'm here."

"Forgive me," he commanded.

Before she could ask for an explanation, Henry kissed her. His lips were gentle, but insistent, and she didn't even consider denying him. How often had she longed for this scenario since the summer began and she was all alone? She closed her eyes and surrendered to him, yielding her mouth to her lord. Henry teased her with short, quick kisses, and then would press his lips to hers for what felt like hours. When she was so dazed that she could barely focus, Henry licked her bottom lip; she gasped in shock, and he carefully eased his tongue inside her mouth. Iolanthe froze for several seconds, and Henry's hands in her hair stilled, as if he had only just realized what he had done. As his tongue began withdrawing, she licked it. This time, it was Henry who froze. When his tongue returned to her, it was with more tenderness and care, his hands petting her hair, instead of fisting it to tilt her head _just so_.

Henry Potter tasted _right_.

When she whimpered into his mouth, he pulled away and buried his face against her shoulder. "Merlin, Io, I . . ." He groaned and hugged her closer, if such a thing were possible.

Iolanthe panted for breath and stroked his hair mindlessly. That had been—magical. She grinned impishly. "I'm afraid I cannot allow a mere betrothed such liberties with my person."

Some of the fear and worry on his visage faded away. "Oh?"

"You, sir, will have to bond with me. Tonight. I insist. Else I'll be a fallen witch," Iolanthe said; her tone was teasing, but her magic sang with raw desperation for their bonding to be fulfilled. He would love and shield her, and she would love and be faithful to him all the days of her life.

"I would never allow someone to cast aspersions on your reputation, Darling Io." He kissed her neck; she shivered. "And since you insist, nothing could make me wait another day to make you my bride." He kissed her earlobe, and then nipped it. "I'll always keep you safe, Io. I promise. None of them will succeed in taking me away, and I'll kill anyone who tries to force you into anything. You're mine."

The low timbre of possessiveness in his voice reassured her fully. That was a Potter Vow, if ever she heard one.

Smiling, Iolanthe wriggled out of his grip and off his lap, blushing fiercely when she heard him groan. She smoothed out her robes and said, "Close your eyes, then."

Henry tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Flushing a deeper shade of pink, Iolanthe whispered, "I don't have stunning bonding robes to awe you with, but that doesn't mean I'm going to wear drab Hogwarts robes to my bonding. Close your eyes."

Henry gulped and stared at her. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, and she had a very strange desire to lick it. What an odd thought! "As my lady commands," he croaked.

Once Henry had closed his eyes, Iolanthe walked toward the armchair that was beside the fireplace. His Quidditch jersey was flung over the back of it. She bent over and inhaled the scent of Quidditch leathers, sweat, baby's breath, and magic. Wasn't it every man's fantasy to see his beloved in his clothes? Someone had told her that—perhaps Haesel, during one of their luncheons. Haesel was ever fond of teasing her about Henry. As quickly as she could, Iolanthe stripped out of her robes and underclothes, her back to the couch. Once she was down to her knickers, she pulled the Gryffindor Quidditch jersey over her head. It drowned her, sliding off one shoulder entirely and baring it to the room. It was a winter jersey, so the sleeves were so long that they covered her hands and hung down a little farther. The bottom stopped halfway down her thighs, revealing her shapely legs, and the v-neck in the front offered a hint of cleavage. Her hair was free and tousled, and she felt like an idiot. "What was I thinking?" she mumbled.

Just as she grabbed the bottom of the jersey to yank it back over her head, Henry said, voice husky and deep, "Don't take it off. You look—" Words failed him.

Iolanthe turned to face him and hid her face in the overly long sleeves. "I asked you to close your eyes!" she cried, mortified beyond belief. Had he seen how slender she was now? Her ribs were showing slightly. Was he disgusted? Would he not want her anymore? She wasn't as blessed in the bosom area as Romilda was. Would he care?

"But you didn't say I couldn't open them again," Henry teased. His smile was mischievous, and made her laugh, despite her embarrassment.

Iolanthe glanced at her bare toenails and fiddled with her unbound hair. "I-I know I'm not very . . ."

"Oh, Darling." Henry leapt from the couch and tucked her head under his chin, holding her firmly against him. "You're beautiful. Of everything you choose to worry about, never let that doubt enter your mind." He kissed the crown of her head. "I will always want you—exactly as you are, at any given moment."

She felt so immature having these fears, but not even she—Lady Iolanthe Malfoy—was exempt from self-image issues. Two months ago, it wouldn't have been such a big issue in her mind. But now that she had lost weight, lost some of her minimal curves, she worried she would resemble nothing more than a child wearing an adult's shirt. But she could not doubt the sincerity in his eyes. Nor could she doubt the need she felt from his magic.

Trembling at the thought of their future finally being real, and not just a potential outcome, Iolanthe Summoned the letter opener from Henry's desk. She pricked her left ring finger, waited for the blood to well, and then began the Olde Bonding Ceremony, for she would accept nothing but a soul-bonding.

Dropping the blood-stained implement on the floor, she traced her bloodied finger across his lips. "So that mine are the only lips you will taste." She created bloody half-circles beneath his eyes. "So that your eyes will never stray from me." She swiped her hand across Henry's forehead. "So that your thoughts will ever seek after me." Iolanthe lifted his shirt and crossed his heart. "So that your love will never waver in disloyalty." She caressed his hands. "So that your hands will strive to protect, not damage." She twined their ring fingers. "May the House of Malfoy and House of Potter join as one through eternity."

As Henry repeated the ritual, bloody finger kissing over her body, Iolanthe felt her muscles grow tighter. This was so close to being real—her happily ever after. What had started years ago, when she was but a child . . . what had been made possible years ago in Haesel's dressing room . . . what had seemed so far away for the past seven months—all of it was now coming to fruition.

Henry's finger curled around hers, and she felt her left hand burn as her family crest appeared on the back of her hand. It was soothed moments later when the Potter crest appeared atop it—the two symbols of power and ancestry overlapping to signify their union.

When the threads of magic finished binding them together, she stumbled forward, exhaustion swamping her. She felt light-headed and dizzy. Henry caught her and lifted her into his arms, fear and worry banking the intense desire that echoed down the bond from her new husband. Merlin, Henry was _her husband_! Her magic bounced with glee; nothing could steal him away from her now.

"Io?"

Iolanthe smiled, eyes fluttering shut no matter how hard she tried to keep them open. "I know this isn't how you hoped our night would end, Henry. I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be silly, darling." Henry kissed her neck and carried her into his bedroom. There were some rustling sounds, and then he set her on the bed. More rustling sounds followed that, and then he slid under the sheets and pulled her into his arms, enfolding her protectively and possessively against him. "Your health is more important than anything else."

She turned her head and kissed the underside of his chin. "I'm still sorry, my love." She yawned, stretched, and fit herself to the curve of his body. "Tomorrow shouldn't be too late," she mumbled.

"Too late?" he queried. "For what?" He rubbed her side.

"Mmhmm." Iolanthe yawned again. "To bring King Arthur back into the world. Now that's Merlin's here"—she yawned—"it's inevitable."

"King Arthur?" Henry's magic radiated pure astonishment.

"Your heir, Henry. Don't you remember?" Their first child would be named Arthur; she could see it. He was a perfect replica of her Henry, except for the eyes; he had her blue eyes.

"Right, Arthur, my firstborn son—that hasn't been born."

"Just promise me that we won't let him bond with a girl named Guinevere. I'd hate to go to Azkaban for killing my adulterous daughter-in-law."

"I promise," Henry said blankly.

"And remind me in the morning to keep an eye out for Morgana, would you? Magic would never allow Merlin to be reborn without her soon to return as well. I can't let anything happen to my future niece; no one but Merlin will ever be worthy of her," she said, voice hard and determined. "Magic would never forgive me if I let anything ill befall her most beloved daughter." And Merlin, little baby Merlin, she could already feel his magic reaching out in the world, searching for his soul-bonded. His threads searched, but found nothing. If Morgana wasn't born in the next few years, she worried for the little boy's health.

Henry turned Iolanthe around to see that her eyes were open, the irises sloshing about like ocean waves. "Darling?"

"Yes, dear?" Iolanthe blinked, and then her eyes were solid again. "Did you say something? I'm sorry. I'm so tired that I must not have heard you. Are you all right, Henry? You look like you've seen the Bloody Baron!" Iolanthe rubbed her eyes and yawned once more. "I can take a Pepper-Up Potion if you want—"

"No, Io, rest. You need to rest," Henry insisted, brow furrowed. His hand splayed across her lower stomach, and she blushed before ducking her head and laying it on his shoulder.

"Are you sure?" He was acting most peculiarly. She had only said that she was sorry for being too tired to gift him with her virtue, and she was sure she had only blinked a moment, but he was staring at her with awe, wonder, and a healthy dose of fear—not of her, but of something else. She was too exhausted to sort it all out. But if her lord needed her, she could make herself stay awake.

"Yes, darling. I've never desired to take advantage of you."

"All right." She closed her eyes and then frowned. "How odd."

"What's odd?" asked Henry.

"I keep seeing a baby in my mind," she mumbled. "With your hair, and my eyes. He's reaching out to me, Henry, as if begging me to hold him. It's almost as if"—she yawned widely—"he desperately wants to be born. But that's silly, right?"

Henry kissed her lips. "Hold him, Io, and keep him safe until we can bring him into the world. He's going to be my heir."

"He is, is he?" she teased. "And what will you call him? And how do you know it's not a girl?"

Henry chuckled, his chest vibrating beneath her head. "You told me 'He's reaching out to me' just a moment ago, darling. By your own admission, my heir is a son."

"I did, did I?" She was so very tired.

"Yes, darling." Henry kissed her neck and stroked her hair. It was going to be a terrible mess in the morning, but she couldn't bring herself to care; Henry would gladly brush it for her. "His name will be Arthur."

_Arthur?_ The baby giggled and clapped in her head. "He likes it." She cracked open one eye. "What a unique name you've chosen, Henry. Have you been spending too much time with your nephew? Thought Merlin would be lonely without an 'Arthur' to play with and guide and battle beside, did you?"

Henry stared into her eyes and ran his thumb beneath the right one, visibly worried, but she had not the first clue why. Did she truly look that tired? Did her eyes seem to be bruised with lack of sleep?

"Magic, herself, told me my heir was to be named Arthur," said Henry solemnly.

"Mother truly visits so few," Iolanthe whispered, voice fading. "She must like you a lot, Henry. I'm glad. Because I'd hate for her to disapprove of you." She sighed. She wished to be blessed with Magic's presence. She knew some of the other chosen had met her, but Iolanthe hadn't seen Magic since she was a little girl spinning in circles on the lawn of her manor, and turned around to see a boy with golden hair and eyes.

"So am I. She gave me you, after all," he said as he clutched her closely.

"She did. And she gave me you," she whispered. "That reminds me of what Astoria Greengrass said last week when she finally accepted Master Vaisey's suit. It was such a daring thing to say, too. She insisted that her firstborn child would be female, and have black hair, even though both she and Master Vaisey are fair of hair. And, get this, she said her daughter would be named 'Morgana'!"

"Imagine that," Henry said, sounding even more stunned. "That's enough talk for now, darling. Your exhaustion pours down the bond. Sleep. We can talk about heirs and legendary names tomorrow." He kissed her sweetly, tenderly, and she melted against him.

"As you wish, Henry."

Then, fully shielded for the first night since she was twelve, safe from the impure intentions of others, Iolanthe Potter obeyed her husband's commands. She gathered the beautiful, blond baby against her chest, held him close, kissed his rosy cheek, promised she would love him, and went to sleep.

* * *

**Note:** I apologize for the lateness of this. There were a lot of real life issues, and I ended up moving. And I've just been supremely busy. But, finally, here it is! So . . . loving or hating it? Ambivalent? What worked and what didn't? In regards to Cen, she voluntarily removed all her stories and will not be posting online anymore. Thank you for all the well wishes for her health and support for her writing. She will not be sending out copies of her stories and neither will I. She does not want them passed around. -Ell


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